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 sound or a soft “Ahem,” she would always exclaim, “Ugh, how revolting! They’re going to make everyone sick!” If it was me, her own child, she’d fret, “Uh oh, are you getting sick? Keep your distance.”
During her commutes on the Long Island Railroad, she would spend the initial moments scanning for an empty row. If she successfully claimed a seat but noticed another passenger eyeing her spot, she’d take a deep breath, clear her throat, and let out a dramatic cough that could rival a Hollywood sound effect. Once she felt her territory was secure, she would remain tense, terrified of bed bugs or a sneeze from afar, which would send her bolting to the doorway for the ride’s remainder. Upon arriving in the city, if anyone blew cigarette smoke within a 50-foot radius, she would hold her breath until she deemed it safe to exhale.
Little did she know that decades later, her concerns would resonate with 7.5 billion people globally.
Every winter, I would notice the skin on her hands cracking from her constant hand-washing. Her intense germophobia followed her everywhere throughout her life. Dining out involved scrutinizing the silverware, plates, and glasses, and any sign of illness in the waitstaff—like a runny nose or bloodshot eyes—would prompt her to request a replacement.
At the gym, she meticulously wiped down every piece of equipment before use, and during tennis matches, she would cringe if her opponent held the ball in their hands. If the cashier at the bagel shop touched the bagels after handling her money, she would leave empty-handed and demand a refund. Even during her favorite Broadway show, Cats, joy turned into anxiety at the sound of a sneeze from behind her, leading her to check over her shoulder repeatedly.
The introduction of self-checkout stations at grocery stores was a blessing for my mother, as it eliminated the potential germs from cashiers. When picking up prescriptions, she refused to sign with the communal pen, often wrapping it in tissue before using it.
In mid-March, what had once been perceived as excessive caution transformed into a model of responsible behavior in line with CDC guidelines. The concept of temperature checks before entering stores or airplanes was something she would have eagerly endorsed fifty years prior, as were social distancing measures and the cessation of handshakes.
A true germophobe’s germophobe, she successfully instilled her anxieties in her three children. We even have video evidence of my younger brother, at just two years old, pointing out a coughing child at a birthday party and yelling, “Sick! Sick!”
I cherish my 71-year-old mother, once seen as overly anxious, and I’m glad she is safely quarantined at home with my sister—who is no longer a toddler—to maintain their sterile environment. For more insights into navigating family health, check out this blog post.
In summary, my mother’s long-standing germophobia has not only shaped her life but has also become a shared concern in our current world. Her extreme caution, once viewed as neurotic, has turned out to be a prescient approach to maintaining health and safety.
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