I’ve never liked hospices. Which, okay, sure, who does ?! Not actually a place one moves for fun.
Every time I’ve ever been in a infirmary, I preoccupy over the germs. It’s like I can literally read them proliferating in front of me, little green flecks rowing the hallways, and the areas, empty or not. I clean my hands so many times after the visits that my surface begin to snip and rind. They get all Benjamin Button-y.
When dad was admitted to the hospital the first time, all I could think about was germs. Not his research, or diagnosis, or team of oncologists telling us the next step. Nope. I was just afraid of getting sick. I didn’t want to sit down. I didn’t want to touch anything. It was like a recurred mansion. No residence was safe.
When youre a neurotic, everything is a warning sign. WebMD is your own personal rabbit opening and the girl coughing next to you was emphatically sent to punish you for some reason.
Sometimes has become a neurotic suffers synonymous with selfish. In that, there he was, my father fighting for his life and I was concerned with what could occupy That’s not a story I like to tell. That’s part of me that’s fitted with shame.
I can’t take care of people who get sick. I’m the most difficult. One Halloween evening in college after touching up a few defendants( and smacking the drinks on empty guts ), all of my roommates made turns coming sick. I couldn’t help. I couldn’t held up fuzz. I find others to step in. I needed to flee.
I get tunnel vision. It’s just me and the germs and what could happen and oh my god, has that mole always been here?
I joke about it. I call myself the neurotic jewish mother nobody misses. I rattle off medical suggestion without actually knowing what I’m saying. I go to the doctor when I have the slightest absces throat.
It’s weird to be so afraid of succumbing but too want to die. I convey, I’m okay. Please. Don’t cry for me, Argentina. I’m medicated and open about my battles with the people in my life, and my dip chills out when I’m on top of it. But there’s always going to be some morbidity in me. A infatuation with demise. An acquaintance with it.
There ought to have seasons in “peoples lives” when I didn’t want to stick around. But I still didn’t want any germs. I didn’t want to get sick. I just wanted to float into some saw lethargy. But oh god, I’d have to be in a hospice, wouldn’t I?
The other era, I was cooking next to my mother. I was making an eggplant parm. She was cooking chicken. I looked at the raw chicken, the raw chicken that was in no way stroking my eggplant, and panicked. Everything was somehow contaminated. I gave my eggplant in the microwave, altogether overcooking it, trying to somehow kill the germs. Then worried about radioactivity and cancer from the microwave.
Yeah, I’m single, why do you ask?
Jokes.( Not really)
This is something I actively fight against and work on incessantly. A doctor once recommended I’m OCD, but we didn’t engage it. Sometimes a girl just really doesn’t want one more mental illness slammed on her, ya burrow?
I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll go back to therapy. I hope the office is clean.