Since Gary’s been sick with whatever it is that he has — flu, covid, a really really bad head cold — he is shunning me hard. He has his room, I have mine, and when on occasion we accidentally meet in the same room we do the big six-foot do-si-do. He has insisted I take my daily toilette out of his room so I don’t enter the death zone. So now my little guest room / music room / home office has a new identity: hotel room where I now have to keep a smaller version of my stuff:
- the daily pills
- one pair of pajamas that still fit comfortably
- one pair of pants that still fit comfortably
- one boxy shirt I can wear without a bra
- one emergency bra which I have yet to wear
- two face masks
When I’m in a hotel room I immediately stow away anything that identifies the place as a hotel: stationery, advertising, the Things to Do In Our City book. I hide anything that spoils the fantasy that this isn’t normal life. Now that I have moved entirely in my little room, I’ve had to find secret hiding places for the face masks and the work laptop, both things that spoil the fantasy of normality.
I am strangely happy with this set-up. It does feel like a little hotel, or maybe a cunning little campsite. Usually, I am dismayed when Gary shuns me. I mean, if he spends half an hour in the bathroom my abandonment issues bubble up. But this setup is nice. It almost makes me start to think how I’m going to decorate and hide things in my inevitable nursing home room.