By: Alex Thompson
From an early age, I vividly recall the look of disgust on my mother’s face whenever someone nearby coughed. Whether it was a loud, aggressive bark or a soft “Ahem,” she would invariably exclaim, “Ugh, that’s revolting! They’re going to make everyone sick!” If it was one of her children making the noise, she would add, “Uh oh, are you feeling unwell? Keep your distance.”
During her commutes on the Long Island Railroad, my mother would spend the first few minutes scanning for an empty row. Once she settled in, if she caught a fellow passenger eyeing the seat next to her, she would take a deep breath, clear her throat, and unleash a cough so dramatic that it could rival a Hollywood sound effect. After claiming her space, she would remain tense, haunted by thoughts of bed bugs or the possibility of a sneeze from several rows back, which would prompt her to leap to the doorway for the remainder of the journey. Upon arriving in the city, if she detected cigarette smoke even from a distance, she would hold her breath until she deemed it safe to exhale.
Unbeknownst to her, four decades later, her meticulous anxieties would find validation, as billions of people would adopt similar precautions.
Every winter, I witnessed the skin on her hands chapped and dry from continuous washing. Her extreme germophobia defined her throughout her life. At restaurants, she would scrutinize the cutlery, plates, and glasses, carefully assessing the waitstaff for any signs of illness—a runny nose, reddened eyes, or a pale visage could necessitate replacements.
In the gym, she would meticulously wipe down every piece of equipment with disinfectant wipes before use, and during tennis matches, she would cringe when her opponent held the ball. At the bagel shop, if she noticed a cashier touching the bagels after handling cash, she would abandon her order and demand a refund. Even during her beloved Broadway show, “Felines,” her delight turned to dread when a man behind her sneezed, leading her to check over her shoulder repeatedly for the rest of the performance.
The introduction of self-checkout lanes at grocery stores was a boon for her, as it eliminated the need for contact with cashiers and their potential germs on bags and groceries. While at the pharmacy, she would refuse to sign documents with the communal pen, insisting the pharmacist do it on her behalf. If they declined, she would wrap the pen in tissues, carefully avoiding direct contact.
In mid-March, what was once seen as excessive caution transformed my mother into a model citizen adhering to CDC guidelines. The notion of temperature checks for store and airplane entry was something she would have wholeheartedly endorsed decades earlier, just as she would have welcomed social distancing and the end of handshakes.
As a quintessential germophobe, she unwittingly passed her anxieties down to her three children. We even have video footage of my younger brother, at the tender age of two, pointing at another child who coughed at a birthday party, exclaiming, “Sick! Sick!”
I cherish my 71-year-old mother, who has transformed from neurotic to a cautious guardian, now quarantined with my younger brother—no longer a toddler—to ensure a sterile environment.
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In summary, my mother’s germaphobia has evolved from a source of family humor into a widely accepted norm amidst a global health crisis. Her meticulous nature, once seen as excessive, is now shared by many, highlighting the need for caution in our everyday lives.