I had planned on writing a much, much longer essay on how I became a germaphobe — something I struggled with at the beginning of the 2010s, managed to overcome by 2017 or so, and then struggled with again after March of 2020. (For obvious reasons.)
But this has been a tough thing to write about — and I really wanted to explore my germaphobic tendencies on a deeper level. I may get around to that, eventually. For the time being, here are some early notes I made on how I was personally/directly affected by the pandemic.
The mental strain was enormous, to the point that it spilled over into physical pain. I could feel the tension in my body, the ache of anxiety. And the tingling tension wasn’t the only physical manifestation of my stress. For about six months, I had a wound on my hand that wouldn’t quite heal.
My cousin’s death — during the height of the pandemic — rattled me. I was shocked, I was sad, I was pained.
Some would probably say that I should link that to the “excessive” hand washing we did back in the early part of 2020, but — no. I’m glad I tried to stay hygienic. And the hand washing was only part of the process. I would cover the wound, I would change the bandages, but it never quite closed over. The wound itself would itch and itch and itch, and it seemed like it would never heal. It was a visible manifestation of the way grief lingers.
Eventually, the wound began healing. It took months, though — and even now, I can look down at my hand and my memory can retrace the borders of the pain.
Back in the fall of 2020, as the pandemic was about to enter its first big wave, my older cousin — my mom’s cousin — contracted COVID. Within a few weeks, as she thought she was recovering, she had a stroke. She went to the hospital, and then to a nursing home. From there, she came back home — but this was only because she was placed in at-home hospice care. A few days afterward, she passed away.
Several things can be true at once. She was a bit older – but she wasn’t ancient, and she was still very active. She was disabled, true, but this was because of a recent car accident. A car accident that someone else caused, I should say, lest she be accused of being “old and senile.” Old people and senile people deserve respect and protection, of course — but my cousin was not doddery. She wasn’t the type to hurt herself or anyone else. She was agile and active and alert.
She could still walk just about anywhere — and she did. She went places. She was active — and not just in an I-like-to-go-out-and-sit-in-a-corner-of-my-garden way. That’s something that I do — and I’m not quite 30.
For her, activity meant being active. Moving. Being out and about with people. Going to a major social gathering, with hundreds or even thousands of people. That’s likely how she became sick in the first place.
But because she had a stroke, and then never recovered from that, it did something to me. It snapped some synapses or something.
I became afraid of ending up in her situation, fighting off a deadly disease, fighting for my (boring, but precious) life.
And I still think about her. I think about her all the time. Whenever anyone mentions the pandemic in the past-tense, as if they’re glad that it’s all behind us now, I think about how it causes lasting trauma in my own family.
I am sorry that my family is traumatized. Not because it inconveniences or annoys those who want to minimize the impact of the pandemic — but because I’m sorry that such large-scale trauma happened in the first place.
It’s something that lingers. Just like the happier memories, grief and trauma have a way of holding on, of not letting go. Of making an invisible wound — or a spot that closes over, but leaves an unfading scar.
Jamais Mayville 