Filthy

I wear a mask in public. It’s not a political statement.

Yesterday, I had to get some dirt and sand for my raised beds. I’m growing a garden. I’ve always wanted to plant in raised beds and already, I have tiny Brussels sprout sprouts growing in the temporary pots I planted them in last weekend. They’re cheerful little greens. They grew an inch yesterday. Cheerful.

Or maybe I’m the one who’s more cheerful than I was last week. In all the staying-at-home, I didn’t get my usual blood draw and my usual visit to my friendly endocrinologist and things went a little wonky for me for a while, maybe a little more than a little. I was exhausted and sad, wonky. But then I finally realized why I was feeling wonky. It’s hard to do, you know. Even after all these years of having thyroid problems, you’d think that I’d understand that the fatigue came from the place it always comes from, that there was a reason for my sadness. I thought I was reacting to the pandemic. Thousands of people are dying. It makes sense to be sad, right?

My family is at risk. My husband, though he works as a project leader and volunteers for Boy Scouts, is in the same category of risk as an eighty-five year old. My son, though he’s studying engineering in college, is bundled with seventy-five year old people. My mother, my brother and even my sister are in high-risk categories. To some, they’re expendable. But not to me. I’m fierce and angry and sad that so many people think getting their roots colored is more important than the lives of my family. Whenever I thought about that, I started crying again. And every day there were reminders. I was sad and exhausted, so exhausted.

It felt normal to react to that way. I’d never lived through a pandemic before. This is what I thought people did, cry and worry and sleep too much for fear of losing their family members. After one day of trying a higher dose of my thyroid medicine, I felt better. After two days, I realized I could still worry about my family and react to the pandemic without crying, forgetting to clean the litter box, and sleeping too much.

Now that I’m feeling more cheerful, I wonder if it’s acceptable to be cheerful during a pandemic. I’m still worried about my family, but in between, while I’m doing my usual stuff, writing, reading, helping my students, cooking, sewing PPE gowns, all that stuff, I feel pretty cheerful. Like my baby Brussels sprouts.

Yesterday was weird again.

I arrived at Home Depot to buy sand and compost for my raised beds, for my baby Brussels sprouts. Before I got out of my car, I put on nitrile gloves and my homemade mask with the vacuum bag filter in it. But was it good enough? As I loaded compost and mulch and seeds onto my trolley, I realized that only half the people in the building wore masks. Not all the employees wore masks. I worked really hard to avoid the unmasked people, but we were in aisles that were narrower than six feet. It was impossible. It was frightening.

Then, I needed help. Which was the cleanest sand for growing vegetables? One of these guys ought to know, right?

An employee with a mask approached me when I waved at him. He was safe for me to talk to. He wore a mask. Whew.

But as he approached, he pulled his mask down to his chin and said, “Can I help you with something?”

I tried to act normal. But what is normal when the safety of your family is at stake? You’d think he’d just understand that if I wore a mask, he should also keep his mask in place, right? I tried to reply to him.

“Uh, I, uh…”

I was speechless as I looked at him breathe in my direction. How far had his aerosol breath come toward me? I took a step backward. He raised his eyebrows. I tried again.

“Do you know if this play sand is safe for growing vegetables?” It was embarrassing that my voice was muffled through the mask. I’d have to get used to that. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I felt a little panicked. Yes, I got a shot of adrenaline. My heart rate rose. My eyes felt that little pop as they adjusted.

Then he said something but I couldn’t make myself understand him. He turned and walked to another area of the garden center. He kept talking. I made myself follow him, focusing on the trail of breath swirling behind him instead of the words he said.

Are you old enough to remember how Charlie Brown’s parents talked? The muffled, ‘wha wa wa-wa wha wha…’

That’s what he sounded like to me in my fear. I wanted to move away from him. My family was at risk here. I’m a mama bear when it comes to my family. They are not expendable. I couldn’t catch my breath.

He turned toward me and pointed to sand next to bags of cement. Then, I found my train of thought.

“Is that clean for amending soil in a vegetable garden? It looks like it’s intended for making cement. Would play sand be cleaner?”

And he said it probably would. I managed to end the conversation and push my trolley away without being rude. Why is it more important not to be rude than it is to protect my family? I put some distance between me and the employee who technically wore a mask, but didn’t really.

I tried to catch my breath and stay away from people milling about while I loaded the rest of my stuff and found a packet of zucchini seeds I wanted. Sweat dripped out of my gloves at the wrists. There was a line for checkout. I wandered about for a bit longer at a distance. I pretended to look at flowers. I could tell my arm pit sweat showed.

Fuck the flowers. I wanted to get away.

Finally, there was a gap in customers and I pushed my heavy trolley to the checkout guy. He stood behind a Plexiglas panel. That was good. He didn’t wear a mask. That was bad. But he stood between me and the way out.

I tried to smile at him. At least we had the Plexiglas. Then, at the end, he leaned down to give me my receipt. Could his breath blow under there? I wanted the receipt. I wasn’t sure if I’d bought the right sand. But still, I wanted to get away. I wanted to get outside where the breeze came from a direction with no people.

Finally, I pushed my trolley out of the store and across the parking lot. I was away from people who could be infected. Once I loaded the stuff into my car, I took off my gloves and got into the driver’s seat. I’d have to glove up again when I got home and unloaded the car. All of that stuff I’d just bought seemed filthy. I felt like I was filthy because that employee breathed on me.

I burst into tears.

And I couldn’t safely wipe my eyes because I was filthy. This is the new normal.

Thank you for listening, jules