Panic wraps cold claws around my heart each morning when I wake. I try to breathe, and thoughts of the dreaded virus rattle my brain. I am wide awake and running through my checklist. Did someone whack me between the eyes with a baseball bat? A heavy hammer pounds on my temples, echoing in my ears. My eyes itch. Red, watery, and caked with sleep, I struggle to keep them open. Nasal congestion and a runny nose produce a series of sneezes, and I relax. I don’t have Covid-19, it is only my seasonal allergies.
Each spring I depend on tree pollen, grass pollen, mold, and dust mites to piss off my immune system. Then just like Patrick Swayze in Roadhouse, my histamines get busy and bounce those nasty allergens, triggering my symptoms. I know this. I have experienced this since I was a little kid. Yet every morning, I am obsessed, worried, and annoyed. I check the day’s pollen count to find the level is medium-high. My nose could have told me that.
Fanatical cleaning, and my medication, makes me feel better. Banishing the dust and keeping the pollen at bay is my daily mission. I sweep the double doormats. One on each side of the door. I use my duster to scrub the ceiling, the walls, and all four corners. I work from top to bottom, moving and dusting every item on every shelf. The bedsheets I strip and subject the linens to hot water and plenty of soap. I beat, fluff, vacuum, and sanitize curtains, chairs, sofas, and tables. No surface is untouched. Scrubbing the floor is my final task. Exhausted, I collapse in a chair and wonder if I should sleep.
What are you battling?
Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer