It’s hard to know just what others may be going through at
any time. That’s never been more true than now.
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| Image caption: white porcelain sink with soap suds at bottom. Soap dispenser on right. Cup on left |
I stand at my bathroom sink and take a deep breath. My shoulders
relax – just a little bit. I turn on the water to hot – uncomfortably so, probably.
We have an ‘on-demand’ water heater downstairs and it will take a while for the
warm water to wind its way through the system and get to the faucet in front of
me. I notice that the soap dispenser is low. So right now the ritual of washing
my hands has an added step. I open the dispenser and fill it with the soap that
will let me do what I need to do.
I fill my hands with soap. I’ve resisted the urge, so far,
of taking off of my rings, my watch, my bracelet, of pulling up my sleeves past
my elbows, and scrubbing all the way up to my forearms.
It’s been so long since our son was in the PICU. He was so
small, so vulnerable, and I remember the nurses there admiring my scrub up technique.
In order to enter the PICU, we had to go to the wash station and wash our
hands. There were instructional cards there that I looked at as I washed my
hands. I remember feeling helpless then too, anxious, and afraid. And so often,
when I feel that way, ritual, whether useful, or even helpful, helped my brain keep
the panic at bay. I scrubbed my hands, my fingers, my palms, my arms back then,
as if by doing that I could somehow protect him, as if that would help him
heal, help him accept his bone graft, help him breathe. Washing my hands became
a moment of peace.
We eventually came home with wound care to take care of and the
strict hand washing needed to continue. His safety was dependent on my
diligence. And somehow, I think in my mind, everyone’s safety was dependent on
my handwashing. My peace became dependent on my handwashing. So, the ritual of
handwashing stayed. That momentary peace, that minute of control I got at the
sink, stuck. And it was hard to let go of. It took therapy. It took years. And
it took intent. It. Was. Hard. But I did it. Yay me.
And now here we are. And here I am pretty much engulfed in
panic and anxiety all the time. I find myself feeling completely out of control
in an environment where we’re told that washing our hands is our best defense. I
think you can see where I’m going.
Back at the sink. The water is running. The soap is in my
hands and first I spread it on my palms, then I scrub each of my thumbs, then my
fingers. I make sure I go back to my thumbs, my palms and the back of my hands.
I don’t need to sing a song once or twice. I know I’m scrubbing long enough. I
make sure I scrub my nails. In between my fingers. My thumbs again. I think
about taking off my rings, my watch, my bracelet. I really want to. But I don’t.
I haven’t yet. While I’m washing my hands my brain is quiet and I like that. I
finally think I should probably stop. I rinse. Then rinse again. Check for
soap. Given another rinse. Go to a towel and wonder if I should change it yet.
Dry off each finger. Think I need to stop doing this so often. But that moment
of quiet – I need it.
And I figure, out of all the maladaptive coping strategies I’ve
had throughout my life, this one, at least might keep my family safer. I wonder
what will happen when it’s not so necessary? Will I be able to stop again?
Before the video call starts with your colleagues, your
friends, your family, there’s no knowing what was happening on the other side
of the screen in order to prepare to virtually face the world. These are
difficult times, and what they little bits of mental flotsam that return as a
result can quickly become overwhelming. I can’t say this enough – now is the
time to give everyone, including ourselves, as much compassion as we can
muster.
