From my earliest memories, I can vividly recall the look of horror on my mother’s face whenever someone nearby coughed. Whether it was the aggressive bark of a dog or a subtle “Ahem,” she would always exclaim, “Ugh, that’s revolting! They’re going to infect everyone!” If it was me, her own child, the reaction was even more dramatic: “Uh oh, are you feeling sick? Stay away from me!”
During her commutes on the Long Island Railroad to the city, my mother would spend the initial moments scouring for an empty row. If she finally settled in and spotted another passenger eyeing the seat beside her, she’d take a deep breath, clear her throat, and unleash a cough that could rival a Hollywood sound effect. Once she felt secure in her row, the fear of bed bugs or a sneeze from across the aisle would transform her into a statue, frozen in place, standing by the doorway for the rest of the journey. And heaven forbid a pedestrian blew cigarette smoke within range; she would hold her breath as if her life depended on it.
Little did she know that decades later, her anxieties would be echoed by billions worldwide.
Every winter, the skin on my mother’s hands would suffer from her compulsive hand-washing. Her struggle with germophobia was a constant companion, following her into every situation. Dining out meant scrutinizing silverware and plates while sizing up the waitstaff for any signs of illness—runny noses, bloodshot eyes, or even pallor warranted a replacement of her utensils.
At the gym, she would meticulously disinfect every piece of equipment before use, and while playing tennis, she would recoil at the sight of her opponent handing the ball. Even at the bagel shop, if she caught the cashier touching bagels after handling cash, she’d walk out without her order, demanding a refund. Even watching her favorite Broadway show, Cats, was marred by anxiety when a man behind her sneezed, forcing her to check over her shoulder repeatedly throughout the performance.
The introduction of self-checkout kiosks at grocery stores was a blessing for her, eliminating the need to interact with cashiers and their germs. At the pharmacy, she would refuse to sign with the community pen, often wrapping it in a tissue before touching it.
Fast forward to mid-March, and my mother, once seen as overly cautious, transformed into a model citizen of public health, embracing CDC guidelines like a pro. In fact, the concept of temperature checks before entering stores or planes was something she would have eagerly endorsed decades ago; she was all for social distancing and the end of handshakes too.
A true germophobe’s germophobe, she has instilled her fears in her three children. We even have video footage of my younger sister, at just two years old, pointing at another child who coughed at a party and shouting, “Sick! Sick!”
I cherish my 71-year-old mother and take comfort in knowing she’s safely quarantined at home with my younger sister as they maintain their sterile sanctuary. For more insights on the intersection of health and lifestyle, check out our other blog post here.
In summary, my mother’s long-standing germophobia has evolved, gaining new relevance in today’s world where hygiene is paramount. Her anxieties, once seen as excessive, have now become mainstream, and her practices seem like common sense in our current climate of heightened awareness.
Keyphrase: My Mother’s Germophobia Transformation
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