(CREATIVE NONFICTION)
HOW TO SHELTER IN PLACE: A SURVIVAL MANUAL
1.12 HEALTHCARE WORKERS
ROSALIND KAPLAN
HOW TO SHELTER IN PLACE: A SURVIVAL MANUAL
1.12 HEALTHCARE WORKERS
ROSALIND KAPLAN
Sit down on the patio in the dove-gray-cool, sun-behind-the-clouds light, while it is still warm enough to be outside. Wait for something to happen. You won’t know what you are waiting for. It will seem like the world is standing still.
Don’t pet your neighbor’s dog when he bounds into your yard, even when he comes over and licks your hand. His soft black-and-white fur might carry virus. Act normal when Laura runs after him to grab the leash; don’t feel sad when she quickly backs away from you. Remember, you are threats to each other. Stand six feet apart, the magic distance. Try not to cough while she is on your side of the fence. In fact, try not to breathe.
Drive to the Rite-Aid to look for hand sanitizer. Don’t be surprised when the lady with the stringy gray hair who works there yells, “It’s gone! It’s all gone!” and then laughs wildly at you, as though you are asking for something truly impossible to procure, like toilet paper. Stroll to the back of the store and notice that the aisle where they usually keep the toilet paper is empty, blank as the stares you get when you smile at strangers. Purchase a giant bottle of isopropyl alcohol, the last bottle left in the store, to concoct your own hand sanitizer in a big pot at home, the one you usually use to cook spaghetti.
When you dress for work, wear your charcoal gray scrubs, to reflect the collective mood of the community. Collect the N95 mask that you are issued for the week. Remember to keep it clean, though if you don’t, you can sanitize it in the oven at 158 degrees for 30 minutes, according to an obscure study in an obscure journal. Try not to use too many isolation gowns, as the supply is getting low and nobody is quite sure where the next batch will come from. Swab the noses of the patients with fevers and coughs, and place the swabs in vials of pink culture medium to ship to the lab. Remember to code for ‘suspected Covid-19 virus infection, R68.89.’ Hope that you’re wrong, that they are infected with some other organism, something for which there is treatment.
Don’t think about this morning’s headline announcing ‘Doctors Sick at Alarming Rates.’ Wash your hands over and over, until the disinfectant soap burns your skin like a match lighting a cigarette.
Don’t greet your husband when you get home. Rip your scrubs off at the door; don’t worry about the neighbors. Wave at the guy across the way who is peering out his kitchen window. Wash the scrubs in hot water. Scour your iphone and your keys with bleach. Place your N95 mask in the oven, turn it to 158 degrees and set the timer for 30 minutes. Shower and wash your hair. Now you can hug your husband if he has not fallen asleep waiting for you to complete this ritual.
Place an order on Amazon for one thermometer, three cases of water, six bags of kettlecorn and twenty-two books you’ve been meaning to read. Consider whether there is anything else you’ll need to hunker down for the next month or two, or maybe a year, or forever. Browse for a few minutes but decide to check out; Amazon doesn’t sell resilience.
Glance in the bathroom mirror while you are brushing your teeth. See the dark circles under your eyes. Think you should start wearing makeup again, and then dismiss the idea. Notice the silvery roots of your dyed brunette hair. Think you should have bought hair color on Amazon, then dismiss that idea, too, because this is a perfect time to go gray. There are benefits to age. You are allowed to go to Trader Joe’s during old people’s shopping hour. Wonder if we will all look like wild animals, feral and fearsome, by the time we are allowed to resume our old routines. Worry that you might end up looking like a skunk, or the lady in the Rite-Aid. Decide you really don’t care.
Get in bed. Know you shouldn’t watch the news at bedtime, but do it anyway, even though you’re sure there will be no good news, nothing really new. Learn that a tiger at the Bronx Zoo is infected with Coronavirus. Who knew that a tiger could develop a cough?
After the news, lie in the dark for a long time before you fall asleep. Don’t think about how much you miss your adult children. Don’t imagine a bear-hug from your son or the clean scent of your daughter’s hair when she puts her head on your shoulder. Don’t wonder when you will ever see them again. Absolutely do not wonder if you will ever see them again—that would qualify as catastrophizing. Finally fall asleep and dream about parachuting out of a plane into Antarctica, the one remaining continent without the virus, only to find out that you are infected and have brought it there.
Wake up questioning whether civilization is coming to an end. Ask yourself if you should have built an underground bunker, just in case. Question your decisions not to hoard Tylenol, not to buy guns to defend your stash of homemade hand sanitizer. Then remember it would be lonely to be the last person left on the earth.
Get up and get on with your day. Drink rich, bitter coffee while it is still hot. Watch a circle of sunlight dance on the wall. Plant your feet firmly on the floor, and notice that, for now, the world is still turning.
Don’t pet your neighbor’s dog when he bounds into your yard, even when he comes over and licks your hand. His soft black-and-white fur might carry virus. Act normal when Laura runs after him to grab the leash; don’t feel sad when she quickly backs away from you. Remember, you are threats to each other. Stand six feet apart, the magic distance. Try not to cough while she is on your side of the fence. In fact, try not to breathe.
Drive to the Rite-Aid to look for hand sanitizer. Don’t be surprised when the lady with the stringy gray hair who works there yells, “It’s gone! It’s all gone!” and then laughs wildly at you, as though you are asking for something truly impossible to procure, like toilet paper. Stroll to the back of the store and notice that the aisle where they usually keep the toilet paper is empty, blank as the stares you get when you smile at strangers. Purchase a giant bottle of isopropyl alcohol, the last bottle left in the store, to concoct your own hand sanitizer in a big pot at home, the one you usually use to cook spaghetti.
When you dress for work, wear your charcoal gray scrubs, to reflect the collective mood of the community. Collect the N95 mask that you are issued for the week. Remember to keep it clean, though if you don’t, you can sanitize it in the oven at 158 degrees for 30 minutes, according to an obscure study in an obscure journal. Try not to use too many isolation gowns, as the supply is getting low and nobody is quite sure where the next batch will come from. Swab the noses of the patients with fevers and coughs, and place the swabs in vials of pink culture medium to ship to the lab. Remember to code for ‘suspected Covid-19 virus infection, R68.89.’ Hope that you’re wrong, that they are infected with some other organism, something for which there is treatment.
Don’t think about this morning’s headline announcing ‘Doctors Sick at Alarming Rates.’ Wash your hands over and over, until the disinfectant soap burns your skin like a match lighting a cigarette.
Don’t greet your husband when you get home. Rip your scrubs off at the door; don’t worry about the neighbors. Wave at the guy across the way who is peering out his kitchen window. Wash the scrubs in hot water. Scour your iphone and your keys with bleach. Place your N95 mask in the oven, turn it to 158 degrees and set the timer for 30 minutes. Shower and wash your hair. Now you can hug your husband if he has not fallen asleep waiting for you to complete this ritual.
Place an order on Amazon for one thermometer, three cases of water, six bags of kettlecorn and twenty-two books you’ve been meaning to read. Consider whether there is anything else you’ll need to hunker down for the next month or two, or maybe a year, or forever. Browse for a few minutes but decide to check out; Amazon doesn’t sell resilience.
Glance in the bathroom mirror while you are brushing your teeth. See the dark circles under your eyes. Think you should start wearing makeup again, and then dismiss the idea. Notice the silvery roots of your dyed brunette hair. Think you should have bought hair color on Amazon, then dismiss that idea, too, because this is a perfect time to go gray. There are benefits to age. You are allowed to go to Trader Joe’s during old people’s shopping hour. Wonder if we will all look like wild animals, feral and fearsome, by the time we are allowed to resume our old routines. Worry that you might end up looking like a skunk, or the lady in the Rite-Aid. Decide you really don’t care.
Get in bed. Know you shouldn’t watch the news at bedtime, but do it anyway, even though you’re sure there will be no good news, nothing really new. Learn that a tiger at the Bronx Zoo is infected with Coronavirus. Who knew that a tiger could develop a cough?
After the news, lie in the dark for a long time before you fall asleep. Don’t think about how much you miss your adult children. Don’t imagine a bear-hug from your son or the clean scent of your daughter’s hair when she puts her head on your shoulder. Don’t wonder when you will ever see them again. Absolutely do not wonder if you will ever see them again—that would qualify as catastrophizing. Finally fall asleep and dream about parachuting out of a plane into Antarctica, the one remaining continent without the virus, only to find out that you are infected and have brought it there.
Wake up questioning whether civilization is coming to an end. Ask yourself if you should have built an underground bunker, just in case. Question your decisions not to hoard Tylenol, not to buy guns to defend your stash of homemade hand sanitizer. Then remember it would be lonely to be the last person left on the earth.
Get up and get on with your day. Drink rich, bitter coffee while it is still hot. Watch a circle of sunlight dance on the wall. Plant your feet firmly on the floor, and notice that, for now, the world is still turning.
Rosalind Kaplan is a writer and physician in the Philadelphia area. She teaches medical memoir and narrative medicine at Thomas Jefferson University. Her previous publications include a full-length medical memoir entitled The Patient in the White Coat as well as essays in a variety of literary and medical journals and anthologies, including Amarillo Bay, Pulse Voices, the Annals of Internal Medicine 'on being a doctor' section, and Philadelphia Stories' 'Prompted.' She will complete her MFA in creative nonfiction at Lesley University in June 2020.
