Clean Enough

Step on a crack…break your mother’s back. That is how we got here-the idea that tiny things could destroy the people I love. I look down at my hands, violently scrubbing each other, for the fourth time. I wonder if she hears me. I scrub faster. Germs. I don’t want to contaminate my home, my baby, or my family. I scrub. Again. Hot water burns, but not enough. Five. Six. Seven. I count how many times I scour both sides. Ten. I look down at my hands, now turned bright red from the continuous scrubbing under scalding hot water. The sting feels like proof. I can hear her coming down the hall. I look at myself in the mirror, feeling guilty but also accomplished. They’re safe. I take a paper towel and carefully turn off the knobs with it, press down on the trash can, looking down at my plain black crocs as they press the button, and the top pops up. I take another paper towel to open the door to my bathroom. I hide it in my pocket as I come down the stairs and then throw it away in the kitchen trash.

There she is, my beautiful wife Alisha. Blissfully unaware of the strange and surreptitious reasons my morning routine takes forty minutes longer than most, and why I insist that this time is “alone” time. Thank God, she has never questioned me once and thus has never breached the subject of what goes on during that time. She thinks it’s just quiet time before the storm of the day, I will face as both a mother and a nurse, but the truth is, I wouldn’t be able to function without my rituals. I’ve just gotten amazingly good at keeping this part of myself hidden.

It wasn’t always this bad until 2020. I had routines, but they didn’t rule over my life this much. The grief of losing my brother to COVID is what sent me over the edge. I was stuck at the hospital, locked in for days at a time, while across the country, alone. His death wasn’t what I imagined as merciful: first double pneumonia, then a collapsed lung, then acute respiratory distress syndrome. He died alone in the ICU, on life support. Gone far too young, just twenty-five years old, my best friend lost among the stars.

I couldn’t pinpoint the exact day or moment when routine turned to ritual. As a nurse, I was always hyper aware of germs; it comes with the territory. One day, after Charles was gone, germaphobia infiltrated my mind. “You can’t lose them, too, protect them, save them like you couldn’t save your brother,” these words raced through my mind over and over. I knew it wasn’t reasonable; you can’t fight every germ. I looked at my baby, Charlise, just under one year old, and I couldn’t bear the idea of losing her or Alisha.

And so began the rituals. Morning cuddles were soon replaced with the war with me in the bathroom mirror. I woke up hours early to disinfect the house, meticulously wiping down our phones, every doorknob, all the handles, and the light switches. Personal hygiene became my mistress, hiding in the bathroom with me, as I carefully scrubbed every inch of my body under scalding hot water. Handwashing became this redundant obsession that I both hated and couldn’t live without.

These changes went unnoticed by most. Who is going to question a grieving nurse about cleanliness or hygiene during a pandemic? Alisha noticed, but chalked it up to grief, allowing me the space to heal. The truth was my grief had transformed into a much bigger beast, and it had slowly taken over my home.

Now, when I come home, my scrubs are left at the door, and no physical contact is exchanged with my family until I shower. Groceries are delivered and sanitized at the door before coming into the house. Soap dispensers are never empty now, and handwashing comes with a new voice screaming, “IT’S NEVER CLEAN ENOUGH.” I wipe and scour, and it’s still always chastising me. So, I count, and I try to soothe myself, it's clean now, it’s clean now.

It’s been almost a year since the pandemic began, and six months since these rituals took over my life. At least I can take pride in keeping my family safe. Not one case of COVID has touched my wife or my baby girl. This is my affirmation; the rituals are working.

Today, when I came home from work, Alisha was waiting for me by the door.

“We need to talk,” she stated firmly. I knew by the tone of her voice that it was important, but I couldn’t talk to her now. I needed to degerm myself before she could even get close. “What is it?” I say as I begin to strip out of my scrubs and place them in the hamper I had left by the front door.

“Listen, I know you’re going through a lot right now,” she tries to grab my hand, but I snatch it back quickly, like a child playing slap hands.

“You know you can’t touch me until I shower, it’s for your safety and the safety of Charlise.” Her hands quickly retreat, but I can tell by the look on her face that she isn’t pleased. “When will this end, Casey? When will we get to be us again?” I pause before I speak because these questions are reasonable and she deserves an answer.

“When it's safe, Alisha, we’ve gone over this. I thought we were, okay?”

“We are okay, but I miss being able to hug and kiss my wife when she comes home? I know you’re scared, but life is short.”

“You don’t think I realize that life is short? I just lost George six months ago.”

I walk away, knowing I made her feel bad.

After my shower, Alisha approaches me again.

“Casey, we need to get away from here for a bit. This house is beginning to suffocate us; it’s not a home anymore, it’s a mausoleum.

“You can’t possibly be suggesting we travel right now? That is wrong on so many levels. Don’t you know there is a life-threatening global happening right now? Do you want to be responsible for the deaths of thousands of people? I know I don’t.’

“Casey, I think you need some time away from the house, and I think we need time to reconnect as a family.”

“Well, we need to reconnect as a family right here at home. Besides, I can’t take off work right now. I’m an essential worker. I am a nurse for Christ's sakes!”

“You’re a neonatal nurse! It’s not like you work in the emergency room or something, a couple of days away isn’t going to kill us!”

“Even if it doesn’t kill us, we can kill someone else by spreading it. I’m not taking my chances, I’m sorry!”

I slam the door and walk away. I know it's childish, but all I can think about is my brother.

Things have been quiet at home since the fight. My efforts to talk to Alisha have been fruitless. Everything is stagnant. Her cold shoulder is affecting me so much, I’ve started to become distracted at work. I find myself zoning out, completely dissociating throughout my day. I can’t go on like this. I text Alisha.

We need to talk.

Her response is quick. We do. Let’s do that tonight when you come home. At this point, any response is better than nothing.

I get home and find Alisha sitting on the couch, mindlessly scrolling on her phone.

“Hi,” my tone is neutral.

She sets her phone and makes sure to give me her undivided attention.

“The way you acted the other night was unacceptable. Slamming doors, and your paranoia…I’ve put up with it since your brother, but…this is becoming too much.”

“Listen, I’m sorry, you’re right, how I acted is unacceptable, but I’m just trying to keep us safe.”

“This isn’t just about safety, this is about control, you aren’t keeping us safe, you’re holding us prisoner, and I can’t do this anymore, Casey.”

“It isn’t about control!” I take a deep breath. “Let’s take the trip. I’m sorry, it’s been a lot since George passed. I want you to know, I appreciate you.”

She grabs my hands, and I am relieved. I don’t want to lose my family to these impulses. I love them. Control, that is the last thing I want.

So here we are, masked up, walking through the airport terminal. Charlise won’t keep her mask on. Germs. Germs are everywhere. From the TSA agent who coughed into his hands and then wiped them on his pants, to the little kid who just stuck his hand in his underwear. I don’t know if I can make it. Deep breaths, I reach for the hand sanitizer for the tenth time since we entered the airport twenty-five minutes ago, but Alisha grabs my hand to stop me.

“That’s enough.” She glares at me. Away goes the hand sanitizer in concession, as my heart starts to race. Keep it together, Casey. But I can’t. My stomach starts to rumble. My legs take off towards the restroom, just in time to make it to the toilet. But as my head goes down to the toilet, my brains start to race. Germs. Germs. Germs. I can’t throw up here. I collapse. Black.

Alisha’s beautiful curls are the face thing my eyes take in as I come to. The airport medical staff is frantically taking care of me. I look down, and there is vomit all over my clothes, and immediately I want to strip. Instead, I just grab Alisha’s hand and fall back into the stretcher. The warmth of her skin touching mine lingers.

“I-I have to use the restroom,” I tell her.

“I’ll help you, babe.”

“No.” I muster the strength to stand and head toward the restroom. I head for the sink.