E— had in-office surgery yesterday. I got to watch. I won't post pics, but I took a bunch. There's something to having a father who was an Army medic, I think. The doctor seemed impressed that I had no problem watching my son cut open in three places. I took note of the doctor's technic for packing the incisions with iodine gauze. It looked so easy. Today, when it was my turn, I came to realize this takes great skill to make the job look easy.
So far, E— is still alive.
My house is bleach-scented. Most of it is as clean as I'd like it. I still need to attack my own bedroom and sanitize the refrigerator, but I could invite guests to eat in my bathrooms. I'd feel confident if you licked my kitchen floor. I Lysol-ed the couch, E—'s futon, all the doorknobs and light switches; the handle to the fridge, the oven, all the faucets, and the top of the washer and dryer. All of my family members have their own bars of soap, new toothbrushes and razors, garbage bags to keep daily laundry organized. I've been washing clothes and towels non-stop for the last 36 hours. There seems more to do every time I turn around. I caught myself thinking that puke would be better than little zombie bacteria, because then at least I'd know exactly what needed cleaning, instead of feeling like everything needs to be cleaned.
This is tolerable only because Mr. PNU is significantly contributing to the sanitation. I have no clue how a woman does this alone.
Each member of the household must bathe daily for half and hour in 1/2 C of bleach and hot water for the rest of the week. Then just once a week for the next twelve weeks. I've spent $120 on cleaning products in the last day, and gone through more sponges and DOW Scrubbing Bubbles than I care to admit.
My palms are a desert.