Therefore the Master remains
serene in the midst of sorrow.
Evil cannot enter his heart.
Tao te Ching
So far it looks like Charlie is not in an active state of dying. I mean, not any more than we all are every day. So this is a win. But he is still sick. Just not getting any sicker. So if this is the zombie plague, he has a mild case and may only occasionally end up with a hunger for brains.
But of course, if (big if, everything in this world is a frickin’ unanswerable “if,”) he is infected, that means he’s contagious. And just because he seems to have the lucky version (and again, fucking if if if) that doesn’t mean that I won’t become a full-on flesh-eating corrupted-corpse zombie.
After talking to some nurse friends and reading weird, incomprehensible shit about “viral loads” we decided to do some bizarre isolation from each other. Of course, this stuff is airborn, so it’s kind of stupid, but apparently we can at least minimize, if not mitigate, risk.
We have segregated our bathrooms. Some folks might think this is marriage heaven if they have a spouse with less than stellar bathroom neatness habits, but Charlie is a good egg and was well trained in toilet seat de-elevation and surface-wiping (except for his shaving cream which has built up in my copper sink a waxy residue so thick I could probably stick a wick in it and call it a candle). But because we have inexplicably found ourselves in a house with four bathrooms for two people, and because he generously bequeathed me the master bathroom and the media room bathroom, I don’t notice much difference. I do realize, however, that if we ever have to downsize to fewer bathrooms in the future, it might feel like a hardship. Even the idea of ever waiting to use a toilet instigates a panic so severe that I want to take a valium just thinking about it. I think I need two toilets per person, just to be safe. That feels safe. That helps the whole breathing thing in a world designed to suck the air out of my lungs.
And why, dear Odin, is valium not an OTC drug for the duration of this shit-storm? WHY? I’m having to hoard them. Sometimes I just hold the dwindling bottle in my hands and take deep breaths so the realization that they are there eases the pain in my chest just a little bit. Yeah, yeah, I sound like an addict. But I’ve had this bottle for over a year and it ain’t empty yet. So shut up. I’m just addicted to the IDEA of valium. To the knowledge that it exists on the planet. I don’t think they have a recovery program for that. And seriously, to whom would I make amends? CVS? Genentech?
We have also moved our base of lazy operations (i.e., TV watching) down to the bigger media room where we can gaze at each other lovingly across the room, letting distance make our hearts grow fonder.
But the worst part is that we are now sleeping apart. At least for a couple of days.
Because we have a king-sized bed and Charlie is a nightmare flailer, we usually kind of sleep apart (sometimes with a DMZ pillow to protect me from the dreams where he’s an alien hunter and I have antennae and must be beheaded), but now we’re actually doing the whole separate rooms thing.
I know there are couples who do this on a regular basis, and it works for them, but we ain’t that couple. Every time I have to get up to go pee (I’m getting so damned old), I have to spend a few minutes with my hand feeling his heartbeat and silently listening to the sound of his breathing in order to feel “ok” with the world and go back to sleep. Last night I got tired of the shock of reaching my hand out and finding his empty space, so I just shifted over there and slept inside the memory of his presence, still dense and rich and full of him. Even though the sheets had been freshly washed, I inhaled his pillowcase like I was banging rails of coke off the ass of a fluffy person.
But it wasn’t nearly good enough. At one point I walked out and stood outside the guest bedroom and peaked through the cracked-open door just to see the rise and fall of the lump under the covers. Then I crept back to bed and tried to find the elusive pathway back to sleep.
Gah. I’m seriously needy. Or seriously in love. You pick. And don’t think I don’t hear you picking “needy” in your head. Shut up. You don’t know what love is, you hard-hearted love-scrooge.
In brighter news, I have a friend “in the biz” (grocery biz, that is) who has landed some sweet, sweet buttwipes and is sending me 24 rolls via UPS. He has, quite literally, saved my ass. At least if Charlie and I both pass over the rainbow bridge, we will meet whatever God might be on the other side with clean tushies. I’m not sure if you get “Heaven” or “Valhalla” or “Summerland” points for that, but I’d rather not take the risk of letting the deities down by having stank-ass or worse: chapping from wiping with paper towels. I’m not even sure they HAVE Desitin in the after-life.
So, things are not so bad. Charlie has a job (for now… we’re expecting that to go away soon). He is not dying today (he’s just kinda miserable). And toilet paper is wending its way across the country to us. So today I am grateful.
So far, we survive.
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Up the Tao Staircase 