Every day when I pull myself out of bed at 2 p.m., I’m greeted by the same two questions: “Sydney, have you washed your hands?” And no matter my answer to the first I can always expect to hear, “Can you please do it again?”
I’ve been in quarantine for the last eleven days, with 32 more to go. I can happily say I’ve washed my hands more times in the past week then I have in the past year — but I guess that’s what happens when skipping one hand-washing could cost my dad’s health.
My dad was diagnosed with severe asthma, triggered by both physical activity and allergies, when he was three years old. His intense, three-hour workout regiment and long list of things he’s allergic to (it’s over 30) has resulted in frequent asthma attacks throughout his life — part of why I worry so much. Especially when according to the Center for Disease Control and Prevention, people with moderate to severe asthma are at higher risk for severe illness from the coronavirus.
So everytime I run my hands under the flowing water, I say the same prayer: “Please God, don’t let me have this virus.”
Most days, I fight the urge to order takeout from Spin or hang out with my best friend whose face I haven’t seen in 17 days. But my dad, I remind myself. My dad could die.
I know that sounds dramatic, but unfortunately it’s a rational fear. The CDC reports that people with asthma may be at higher risk of getting “very sick” after they contract the virus. The illness can affect the respiratory tract, which can cause an asthma attack — something that caused my dad to struggle to breathe for over a month around January. The virus reduces lung capacity, and since asthma already reduces lung capability, he has a higher risk of dying from it.
While quarantine has been far from entertaining and it’s hard to not go insane from boredom, I know I’m doing something important — I’m keeping my dad safe and healthy.
For me, these last few weeks have been about routines. I’ve stuck with cleaning — my room eight times and my closet four. My dad and I watch whatever TV show we’re obsessing over — right now, it’s Tiger King. And every day, I go on a run — the only time my parents allow me to leave my house.
But when I come back, there’s a strict protocol — something my dad makes sure to enforce. I take off my shoes outside, wash my hands, wash my face and brush my teeth. Then I have to shower and wash everything I’m wearing. Twice.
This protocol is what’s keeping my dad sane. As a lifelong, self-proclaimed germaphobe, this experience hasn’t gone over well with him. Every morning when he wakes up, he touches his forehead to make sure he doesn’t have a fever — then he takes a deep breath to make sure his lungs are working. He hasn’t seen a face in-person that’s not one of our family members in over three weeks.
And as the days go by, I get more worried. On March 26, there were 85,377 cases in the Unites States. On March 29, there were 132,893 cases. The next day there were 142,047 cases. There’s no telling whether or not the 142,048th case could be me. Or even worse, my dad.
Don’t get me wrong, I used to think that it didn’t matter if I saw my friends or got Chick-Fil-A one last time. But the worry that my dad carries has rubbed off on me — something that I know is for the best.
I’ve realized that while I’d rather be doing almost anything else, staying in is the safest and most reasonable option for my family and me. My dad’s at a higher risk than anyone else I know, and I’m one of the only people he has contact with.
So to keep my dad safe, I’ll be in bed for the next 32 days — please send me Netflix recommendations.