Hugs and bugs

I managed to get a haircut this week. It’s not even that good of a haircut, but I’m so excited not to look like a disco vagrant any more, I don’t really care. Plus, thanks to the coronavirus, I think the mask distracts from the hair.

When it became clear that we were all going to have to start wearing masks every time we do Brötchen runs, I did wonder how I’d react. I did wonder if there would be any traumatic flashbacks on my part, now that everyone in the Aldi looks like they’re about to scrub up for surgery. I remembered an incident shortly after my Dad’s death when I was helping a friend of a friend unpack into a new apartment. This friend had a lot of health issues that required breathing assistance. So, I reached into one box and found a collection of breathing tubes, which reminded me of the tubes my Dad had to use during his later years to keep connected to his oxygen … and I just left the room. I told my friend that I didn’t think I was going to help any more and then I went out on the balcony or something.

But, so far, none of that. And, the more I think about it, medical masks are not really something I associate with Colin’s illness. During the whole time we were in the hospice, I only remember one time where a nurse wore a mask – because she had a cold – and mostly I just thought it was so strange she considered it necessary, given how Colin was dying anyways.

Masks weren’t that common in the hospital either. I know the doctors put them on in the intensive care units, but it was always a grudging kind of thing, where they’d pull on a mask and then sort of drape a gown over themselves before looking at Colin. Which is not a slam on the doctors. I’m sure they scrub up properly when they’re doing surgery. But Colin’s problems weren’t infectious and there was no global pandemic going on, so the mouth guards did seem a little over the top back then. I know, when we first started visiting oncology wards regularly, I was so glad we were spared the masks. The gowns were more than enough fuss. And at least the gowns go on somewhat easily. A month or more into this mask adventure I can’t seem to put one on without snapping off my nose or accidentally putting it on the top part of my face first.

So, I don’t like the masks, but I’m not bothered by them either.

What I realize I miss are the hugs. I remember, in one of my darker moments of therapy, I mentioned to the therapist that “Apparently, you lose a child, you get a hug.” Which is mean, but it’s true. I never got hugged so much as I did back in the autumn. I showed up for work and got about eight hugs in a row. I even went into autopilot, throwing a hug at a co-worker whom, in retrospect, really wasn’t a hugging sort of guy.

And I won’t lie, I was a little surprised by it all. This is, after all, Germany, where … well, let’s face it. We’re not Italian here. People do hug and all that, but everything is kept in limits too. But the hugs kept on coming. Not from everyone (and not people at work, because that would have gotten weird), but I had my group of close friends and man-hugs kind of became a thing. I’m going to my first bereaved Dad’s meeting since February tomorrow and I don’t know how those are going to work now, since the man-hug seems like a basic ingredient.

And now they’re not happening. And I kind of miss those. And it’s not as if I’m going to shrivel up and die now that, when I meet up with a friend, we keep a respectful distance and, if we have a beer, we either do it while taking a walk or sitting at very far ends of the table and we don’t even offer handshakes, much less a man-hug. I suppose it’s just one more thing to add to the list of things that leave me unhappy with the general situation.

Hugs to everyone.