- First and foremost, purchase that liquid hand sanitizer by the gallon. With or without a coupon, it's a must! Then, no matter how rude it may be, appear to be, or actually is, use the stuff. If someone sneezes, coughs, burps, or otherwise makes a noise of any sort, including talking and singing, instruct them to hold out a hand and spritz a generous sized blob into it.
- Fill the air with the spray that kills 99.9% of germs. Don't be stingy about it. At the risk of succumbing to "Lysol" poisoning, take the chance. DO IT!
- Wipe down all surfaces with those disinfectant wipes. Not only clean the table, but the kitchen counters, door knobs, toilet seat, jars, cans, mouse, steering wheel, whatever your loved one may have touched or is possibly thinking about touching.
- Use all things disposable, where and whenever you can. In the kitchen, use paper towels. Generously making allowances for his fevered stupor, realize his better judgment will lapse. He won't remember your instruction about the paper towels. He will transgress and likely revert to his years-old habit of drying his hands on the kitchen tea towel. This is where your conviction to survive this insidious beast called cold will be tested. Dismiss your terry towel use. Whatever you do, don't touch that cloth! Don't allow anyone else to use it either as it is blanketed with the gnats of disease that lay in wait to swarm all over you as they have your loved one.
- Don't shake hands or in any conceivable way touch the isolate, who by now, I hope you have corralled across the room, against the farthest wall. While this may sound callus, it is still permissible to speak to your bug-crawling mate, so long as he is at least, at least, 12 feet away, preferably more. Should you happen to live in a house with a west and/or east wing, keep him at the far end, with communication either by intercom or cell phone only.
- Likewise, don't touch his clothes. Don't wear them. Nor his dishes, don't eat from them. Buy new ones. His books, don't read them or his CDs. Don't even listen to them since you don't know when last he listened, thereby, infecting the very case in which they come. Beware of his phone, the family phone, and most of all the TV remote. These are all harbingers. Harbingers, I tell you!
- As for feeding him, well okay, you just sort of have to. With your added safety features of disposable gloves and a surgical mask, he can enjoy the same foods as do you, just not anywhere near you. If you're close enough to see him fill his face with food without the aid of binoculars then you are way too close! Back away from the scene! Do it immediately.
- Lest you think I am hateful, may I defend myself by saying, what good will it do for me to sacrifice myself to the cold gods? Isn't it enough that I drop, by way of the leaf rake, his dirty sheets, towels, pants, socks and shirts into the hot bleach water to be washed on the heavy-soil cycle? Isn't it enough that I cook his meals to the point of volcanic bubbling, chancing a nasty burn to my person, just to make certain to kill any latent crawlies?
- Further, isn't it enough I sleep in another room, in this case, the cramped office of Story Central on an aluminum cot whose legs collapse with the regularity of a swinging door in a prison escape? Do I complain when I am awaken as my forehead bangs against Bruce's wooden desk chair on one side of me or my hair tangles in the wheels of my computer chair on the other side? Certainly not. Sacrifices are necessary from everyone when a cold threatens.
And for those of you saying, "You're killing all the "good germs" and "what about building your immunity?" As Scarlett O'Hara says in Gone With The Wind, "I'll think about that tomorrow." All I know is that I don't feel punk and, darn it all, that's a better thing! Bruce doesn't call me Flo, short for Florence Nightingale, for nothing!
Gotta run. Time to wipe down Mr. Buzzbee, the cat, with a disinfectant sheet. I caught Bruce petting him with my spyglass.
Hugs and blisses,
Jane Marie
