Housekeeping in the Time of COVID-19

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My sideburns are white and there is a skunk stripe down the middle of my head. I haven’t

seen my real hair color since 1987, so this is new to me. So is deep cleaning my house every day, all

by myself, and disinfecting my groceries.

Before the coronavirus crisis, a housekeeper cleaned our house twice a week. Now, Maribel

has been relegated to working only outside, sweeping the porch and wiping down the patio furniture.

We feel obligated to keep her employed and pay her every week as long as we can. Maribel

doesn’t speak English and doesn’t drive, so her options are few.

Inside of the house, there are strange sights and smells. The ubiquitous assault of disinfectant

and a pile of towels and cloth napkins in the laundry room. I’m using them to dry my hands so

I don’t use too many paper towels. Paper towels, and most paper goods, are hard to come by.

There is a bed tray outside of my 18-year-old son’s door. He returned from college abruptly

when the school closed his Boston dorm. He arrived with a cold and then developed a low grade

fever. We immediately put him in a 14-day quarantine. Luckily, his room has an ensuite bathroom.

He isn’t allowed to leave his room and he’s discouraged from coughing when he opens the door. He

eats off paper plates. He drinks coffee now. Coffee with milk. Today I ran out of paper cups that are

designed for hot beverages. I will have to check out my options. I can’t remember if people are

hoarding Styrofoam. I have barely laid eyes on him. We talk in brief spurts on the phone. It’s

strained and awkward. Finally we manage to do a movie night, logging into Netflix at the same time

and talking on the phone. We watched Alladin and did a sing-along during the “A Whole New

World” song. It felt like he was little again and, for a moment, we had that deep mother-son closeness.

My husband is a doctor, working night shift in two emergency rooms. One of his colleagues

is hospitalized. We are anxiously awaiting news of his status.

I rarely see my husband and I compulsively clean the door handles and alarm keypads when

he enters and exits the house. He brings home groceries, leaves his shoes outside, and disappears

into our home office. I follow Youtube video instructions about disinfecting the packaging and

washing produce. It is exhausting, physically and emotionally. How do I know if I’ve removed all of

the virus from a pasta box? Hasn’t anyone invented a type of blacklight so you can scan items entering

your household? I’m running out of Lysol and I’m not sure where to buy it. I’ve heard wipes are

now impossible to find.

The home office, now my husband’s sanctuary of sorts, has a fold-out couch, a desktop

computer and an outdated flatscreen TV. He has his own box of plastic flatware and a snake of red

Solo cups lounging on the filing cabinet. All thoughts of the environment have gone out the window.

Sometimes we go out on the porch and sit on opposite sides. We stare at our garden in silence.

We are too tired to talk.

I made a list of items to pack in a carry-on suitcase with wheels. If one of us gets very ill,

there would be Tylenol, washcloths, Gatorade, water, cough drops, and an inhaler, all ready to roll

down the hallway to the infected. I hope I have everything. I post questions to the afflicted on Facebook

to see what I should keep on hand for what is being referred to as “supportive home care.” No

one answers.

The wave of COVID-19 patients has yet to hit LA, but it is coming. For now, my husband

sits with the hospital staff in heavy silence. Soon, they will have to make terrible decisions.

I spend my day doing laundry, separating potentially contaminated laundry from regular

laundry. I deliver the folded clothes and towels in reusable shopping bags to the entryways of the

sequestered. I knock on their doors and quickly step away. The virus is airborne.

I have heard that the lines to get into the grocery stores are long and shoppers are standing

too close to one another. I go online and see that Bristol Farms, a high end market in West Hollywood,

closes at midnight. There is a big cluster of infected people in West Hollywood. But, I was

sure I could safely pick up a few items if I got there at 11:30 pm. Few cars are on the streets and the

parking lot is silent. The glass doors of the market are closed. Employees are cleaning the store. I

wave frantically and a young African American man looks up and rolls his eyes. I wave again, and

nervously wait for him to approach. He opens the doors a few inches and firmly says they are

closed. I told him I looked online and that they were supposed to be open until midnight.

He glared at me and yelled, “Lady, we haven’t had a break all day! Our rights are being violated!

We’re closed!” He slammed the door. I stood helplessly for a moment as he stalked away. The

rest of the employees ignore me. I feel weak, my heart is racing and my mouth dry.

I go across the street to Ralph’s Grocery and grab a cart. It has a damaged wheel. This particular

Ralph’s has very narrow aisles. I immediately face off with another shopper headed in my direction,

an expressionless Hispanic woman who is staring at the empty, ravaged shelves. She doesn’t

slow down. She looks like she’s in shock. I do a U turn with my cart, the damaged wheel popping

with every step. I quickly find couscous and cereal. There are no paper products of any kind. A

crowd of shoppers surround an employee in a black uniform. His Ralph’s name tag says his name is

Jorge. He is holding up his hands defensively. He doesn’t know when the next shipment of toilet

paper will arrive. They should check back first thing in the morning.

I find an open checkout stand and nervously pull money out of my purse. The cash, grocery

bag, receipts and change are now all possible sources of contagion. I will consider how to disinfect

everything when I get home.

Back in my kitchen, I inspect my nails. They are soft and discolored. My iPhone is having

trouble recognizing my thumbprint. I don’t know how to work with harsh chemicals. I watch Youtube

videos about the proper way to clean fruit with a water and vinegar solution but it’s unclear if

that will kill the virus. I learn how to sterilize sponges with bleach and water. I inhale too much of

the bleach and my eyes and lungs are irritated for several hours.

A few days later, I venture to the Third Street Farmers Market. It’s a famous Hollywood

market, popular with tourists with a rich history of celebrity sightings. None of the clerks or butchers

have gloves. The fishmonger had one glove. He handed me the paper package and I accept with

mixed feelings. I’m grateful he had product for me to buy, but I’m not sure if the disinfectant I’m

planning to use will bleed thru the butcher paper wrapping. When I pay with my credit card, I had to

push accept on the screen. Another source of potential contagion.

I go to a vegetable stall. A little girl is stroking the produce, touching everything like it’s her

favorite toy. I decide to just cook the hell out of everything I buy. I choose some leeks, wrap them in

a plastic baggie and put them in my bag. Now the leeks, the plastic bag and the shopping bag are

potentially contaminated. I keep going. The second produce stall has half the items it had last time I

was there. I quickly choose some small Yukon and red potatoes, green beans and a tiny head of lettuce.

Same payment process. Everything potentially contaminated.

I hit the poultry stand. They had gotten in a good shipment. The vendors are friendly. They

aren’t wearing gloves. While they are prepping my chicken thighs, I run over to the little French grocery.

No flour, no eggs, no toothpaste, no paper products. I run back and pick up the chicken and

pay with my credit card. I drag the bags to my car and throw them in the trunk. As I drive home, I

see people waiting in a line for Trader Jo’s that snakes down Fairfax Ave. People are driving with a

nervous aggression. When I arrive at home, I remove the bags from the car. My car interior, trunk

lid and car door handles are now all potential sources of the virus. I punch our alarm code and push

the door open. More virus. I put the bags down. Everything will have to be cleaned prior to being

put in the refrigerator or pantry. I wash my hands aggressively and for a moment I’m Joan Crawford.

My contaminated credit card is in my back pocket. I will have to clean the card with alcohol and

wash the pants. Will alcohol ruin the magnetic strip on the credit card? My head hurts.

I try to order groceries online. No delivery dates available on Amazon Fresh. I try about 30

times. I finally just order toilet paper from an Amazon seller. A few days later, my order is canceled.

In an effort to plan for the worst, we have an online appointment with our estate planning

attorney. I hope we can update our will on time.

I try to get some work done. My husband and I do property management for a few apartment

buildings we own in Los Angeles. The Housing Department says the tenants have a year to pay

back their unpaid rent. Nothing is mentioned about mortgage protection for landlords.

A few weeks ago, my husband and I were enjoying our empty nest life. We went to concerts

and had dinner with family and friends. We were working hard, but we also looked forward to travel

and cultural activities. I had hair and nail appointments, went to the grocery store for fresh food at

least three times a week as all was plentiful. Now it feels like we are in a fight for our lives. Some

people say they’re just being asked to hang out at home and watch TV. From my experience, it isn’t

as easy as that.

I’m lonely. I’m frightened. I cry every day. My lower back is killing me. I’ve had a persistent

cough for a month. It might be the virus. Or it’s stress related. I wait a week for test results. I’m negative.

For now.

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The Rubbertop Review, Vol. 11, pp. 57-60, 2020.