Dear Mr. President

My husband is a quiet man, the kind that when the storms come, outside or inside, he’s steady as a rock. While trying to figure out how to fix everything and everyone, he usually has three things to say. Deana, leave it alone; this, too, will pass. Why do things happen, or what will you do about it?

I think the quarantining is getting to him, and like everyone else, he is ready for it to end. So he sometimes edits my columns, checks my grammar, and reminds me to check the facts.

However, I think he may be stressing out a little because recently, he handed me a column he wrote, and I think some people can relate to it.

Dear Mr. President, you keep telling us to social distance, wash our hands, and keep our hands away from our faces to avoid the coronavirus.

Mr. President! Social distancing is most painful. I have friends I can’t visit and neighbors in the hospital. I called them on my new phone, which had a state-of-the-art space-age video, to see my family; I laughed with my family. I share all kinds of experiences with my family and friends. But Mr. President, I can’t touch them.

It is day 38 of this dang quarantine. I am emotionally and physically depleted and sensually deprived. I am ready to tell the governor to take his “stay in house” order and shove it. But, instead, I am going out and touching someone. As much as a drug addict needs a fix or an alcoholic needs a drink, I need to touch someone. I need to hug someone. I need a fix.

Every time I walk into the kitchen, I am confronted with, “Have you washed your hands?” Again, I turn the news channel on and hear, “Wash your hands.”

Mr. President, I now have dishwater hands. I don’t have wrinkles; I have mountains and valleys on my hands. I have swamp creature hands. Speaking of social media or distancing, people turn and run in the other direction when they see my hands. They don’t make a hand cream that can erase the ridges in my hands.

Mr. President, it is almost a reflex to bring our hands to our faces. Yet, untold videos show our esteemed government officials touching their faces to scratch an itch or rub their chin while urging us not to touch our faces.

Why, just the other day, I had to sneeze. I looked for tissue to no avail. I looked for a napkin, and all the while, my nose was running away. I looked for a paper towel but no paper towels. Finally, I ran to the bathroom to get some toilet paper. Agast! No toilet paper.

What is a man/ woman to do? My nose runs across my mouth down to the front of my shirt. What am I to do,” I know. I’ll do what my mother always did. When there were no tissues available, no napkins, no paper towels–the tail of my shirt would do, or the crook of my arm.

Mr. President, I was horrified yesterday. I am a gardener, and I drink a lot of water when I work in the garden. To my astonishment, I could not taste or smell the water. I began to hyperventilate. I might have gotten the coronavirus. I was terrified. I couldn’t smell, taste, or breathe.

My wife, a retired nurse, told me to calm down. “You need to recall your high school chemistry, she said. For example, pure water does not have an odor or taste.”

Where is the Kool-Aid, tea, Cola, and orange juice? Anything with the taste or odor?

After reading his story, I said, “Honey, this will be over soon. You know everything happens for a reason. This pandemic will make us stronger, more conscientious, and hopefully, kinder to each other.

And there’s only one thing we can do about it: take care of ourselves, follow the guidelines for not spreading the virus, and pray for our country, our family, and those who are hurting.

He’s fine now. He just needed to be reminded.