SPOKANE, Wash. — It’s likely I’ve always been this way, reckless with fear.
Even as a child I dived right into what terrified me, the dark basement, the cobwebbed underbrush. When I was told that I had multiple sclerosis almost seven years ago, I wanted to rush into the future and pull it down like rotten timber all around me. I was angry to be stuck in the present, with these common primary symptoms: numb feet, tingling legs, a fatigue I wore like a gown carved from stone.
It was infuriating not to know what could come next. Would I lose my ability to care for my children? Would I wind up bedridden, an invalid? I wanted to experience the whole course of my disease in one brutal stroke. I ached for control.As the coronavirus began to circle eastern Washington State, I was again gripped by the nail-biting unknowability of all that would come to pass. I considered writing a casual social media post, Any peeps with Covid-19 want to share a fondue? An email blast: All those with fevers, dry coughs, etc., are invited to my house for hot yoga in a windowless room. Or maybe a short drive to the hospital, where I could slip into the E.R. and rub my face against the pale blue privacy curtains.
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When the news came of school closures, my husband’s concern spilled over. He told me, bravely, “I don’t think you should go to work.”
I work in a small children’s bookstore called Wishing Tree Books: Pretty shelves, cheerful lilac walls, a sun-bright stained-glass window. Going to work calms my anxiety. The books sing quietly to me with their humming, word-stippled potential. The thought of losing this space upset me. The shop opened only in November. If everyone stayed home, how would this new small business — magical as it is — survive?
My husband stewed. Usually I’m the one stuck in an anxiety spiral and he’s the one who guides me out of it. This role reversal meant one thing: that what he asked of me was sensible, necessary, even, but I bucked against it, scowling.
“I’ll keep my distance from the customers. There are disinfectant wipes and hand sanitizer.” “You just had an infusion,” he reminded me.
“I’ll be careful,” I said, and the very thought of needing to be careful stoked my anger. I wanted to lick the counter-tops, nose the doorknobs.
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