The Intervention

A humourous look at a phobia

 

Intervention

 

 

By

 

 

Linda White

 

           

            Maya stands in front of the myriad of deodorant and antiperspirant choices.  Delicate floral scents contained in plastic containers designed in dainty pastel colours abound.  She reaches for one of the antiperspirants; there’s no chance a simple deodorant will suffice.  She needs the most effective product possible.                                                    She holds her selection at a distance so that she can read the label.  It would be nice to find an antiperspirant without aluminum but there just doesn’t seem to be one.

“You look confused.  Can I help?”

 Maya jumps and drops the antiperspirant. 

“I didn’t see you come up,” she says.

 The clerk bends down and retrieves the antiperspirant. 

“I’m sorry,” she says.  “You just look like you need help.”

That’s the understatement of the year, Maya thinks.  Aloud she says, “I’m fine, really.  Just having a senior moment.”  My God.  Did she actually say that? She hates the signs of aging and the deferential dears that people use when they address her.  Okay, when she looks in the mirror, there are a few wrinkles but they aren’t her big problem right now and she is anything but frail.

The clerk’s appearance forces her decision.  “I’ll take this,” she says, handing the antiperspirant over as though it’s too much for her to take it to the till herself.  She pays for it and hurries out.

When she gets home, she can hear Geoff in the shower.  It’s bad enough that her 33 year-old son is back living with her after a failed marriage but he insists on taking long hot showers.  To relieve the tension, he says.  Maya suspects he cries the whole time but she’s too afraid to get close enough to find out.  Her phobia worsens.  Now even the sound of the water pouring out of the showerhead sends her pulse pounding.

Maya goes into her bedroom and closes the door.  Still she can hear the muffled rush of the water.  Her head is itchy and even with the short haircut she gave herself, it feels oily.  So much for the dry shampoo she found in the medical section of the drugstore.  You can comb it in and brush it out but your hair is only marginally better.  She sighs.

Dave died a year ago.  Massive heart attack and he didn’t suffer at all.  So why isn’t she afraid of a heart attack?  Why is she afraid of bathing, even washing?  She did find him dead in the bathtub but it wasn’t drowning that killed him.  Maya knows that phobias are illogical but that doesn’t  make them any less debilitating.  She is computer savvy enough to read up on her affliction- ablutophobia- rare and usually triggered by something like Dave’s demise in the tub but it doesn’t help her with her irrational fears.  Knowing and feeling are two entirely different things.  This has become abundantly clear in the last few months.

She hates the grubby feeling which is rapidly intensifying, yet she can’t face a shower or even worse- a bath.  At first she was able to take small sponge baths but instead of making her more tolerant of washing, they make her more and more fearful until she depends on deodorants to mask her increasingly bad odour.  And even the “strong enough for a man but made for a woman” brand fails.

“You home, Mom?”  Geoff is out of the shower and she can hear the tv start up.

“In here,” she calls and gets up to join him.  Sitting and moping on the bed won’t help anything.

Geoff looks away from his talk show.  “Jayne called.  They’re meeting for lunch at The Sandwich Shack.  She said you should join them.”

Maya thanks Geoff.  She would love to have lunch with her friends but she is afraid they’ll notice her present issues with personal hygiene.  She goes to the bedroom and checks her image in the dresser mirror.  Her hair is a little �" okay, honestly it looks like bed hair but if she uses just a little product, she can spike it up and her friends will think she’s trying a newer, trendier look.  And she can put on make-up.  No foundation but mascara and eye shadow.

Half an hour later, she calls good-bye to Geoff as she leaves.  He’s still absorbed in his talk show and doesn’t look up.  He lifts his right hand in a desultory wave, oblivious to the mess he has created around “his” chair.  Candy wrappers, chip bags and crusts of bread.  Some are on the floor and some keep the dirty mugs company on the side table.

She finds parking a block from the Sandwich Shack and remembers it’s Thursday.  In small town Cold Creek, it’s always busy for lunch Thursday.  Must be tradition, Maya thinks.  A lot of women make this their day to get together over the tasty choices the coffee shop offers.

When she walks in, Jayne, Carol and Simone are already at a table.  They wave and she heads over to join them. 

“We ordered for you,” says Carol.  “Your usual.  You did want the Greek Salad?”

“Thanks,” says Maya.  She thinks- Gawd, am I that predictable?

“What is that smell?” says Simone, her nose wrinkling.  “I swear I can smell something sour- like clothes that need washing.”

“Sorry,” says Carol.  “My allergies are acting up.  I can’t smell much of anything.”

Jayne changes the subject as another group of women comes in.  “Is that Amy Duncan?  I heard she’s home with her folks.  Getting a divorce.”

Maya feels like hugging Carol but refrains considering that the odour Simone is complaining about likely emanates from her.  She wants to cry or to hide but she does neither.  When their salads come, she tries to eat some of hers.  Thanks goodness for Simone’s Caesar �" The Sandwich Shack uses lots of garlic in their dressing.

Later they plan to meet the following Thursday and their good-byes fill the air.  On her way home, Maya wonders if realistically she can ever go out again.  As the heater warms the car, she’s sure she can smell herself.  Tears gather and roll down her cheeks.  It shouldn’t be like this and it’s come to the point where she might have to seek help.

She parks the car in the garage and when she walks through the living room, she snaps at Geoff.  “Is that all you can do?  Why aren’t you looking for a job?  Get a grip!”

Hurt crumples Geoff’s face and Maya is immediately sorry for losing her temper.  After all, it isn’t his fault she is falling into deeper and deeper distress.  Or is it?  She tries to remember when the ablutophobia became a real problem.  If only she could have a long hot shower- but even the thought if the water hitting her vulnerable skin makes her gasp.

“I’m sorry, Mum,” says Geoff.  “I just can’t seem to …” his voice trails off.

“Oh, I’m the sorry one,” she says. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately.  You know you can take as much time as you need.”

Geoff turns back to the tv suspiciously quickly, his anguish dulled by the inane talk tv  he watches every day.

            And of course, Maya does know what’s wrong.  Her life is spinning out of control- that’s what’s wrong.  She needs to bathe, to wash her hair �"she feels gooseflesh rising.  She will read.  That’s what she’ll do.  She’ll lose herself in some fluff- one of the historical romances Jayne keeps palming off on her.  Maya isn’t a real romance fan but escapism just might be the order of the day.

            Maya curls into her favourite chair and is transported to medieval England complete with knights in shining armour and saucy misses whose anachronistic spirits of independence completely captivate the devilishly debonair knights.  Her worries about Geoff and her inability to bathe fade as Elfrida, the heroine and Grante, the hero battle the erotic sparks they incite in one another.

  She doesn’t notice when Geoff actually turns the tv off and goes to his room.  Chapter Two.  Maya imagines the dank castle and the damp English winter.  Yet there is a festival planned.  In her mind’s eye the torch light flickers.  She can smell the…

What!!! Elfrida’s maids have prepared a BATH for her and they have sprinkled herbs and pressed flower from the previous summer on the hot water’s surface.

Maya throws the book across the room and for the second time bursts into tears.  Without the constraint of driving, she lets herself go and sobs noisily.  Clear snot joins the tears and with great effort, after the crying runs its course, she gets control.  And nearly loses it again.  The tissue box is empty.  Geoff’s sinus problem but he could have replaced the empty box with a fresh one instead of letting the used ones accumulate around “his” chair.

There’s no shortage of toilet paper so Maya blows her nose fiercely into a length she has torn from the roll.  She catches sight of herself in the mirror above the sink.  Oh, Gawd, she thinks.  In the movies, women cry with beauty.  Gathering tears only make their eyes darker and more luminous.  Their faces don’t redden and blotch.  Maya almost forgets and is about to splash cold water on her cheeks.  She can’t.

Slowly she returns to her chair and sits looking into space but sees nothing.  Then she reaches for the phone and calls Mental Health Services.  She can’t fool herself any longer.  She listens to the ringing and when a perky voice answers, she hangs up.  She tells herself that she would have to wait for an appointment anyway.

Several days pass and things don’t improve.  In fact, Maya is developing an aversion to the hand sanitizer she buys in the hopes that she can use it in lieu of soap and water.  For a couple of days, it works and then she feels the same panicked symptoms when she approaches the clear plastic bottle of mostly ethyl alcohol that she feels when she see the liquid soap dispenser near the bathroom sink.  To top things off, Geoff is showering less and ordering more fast food in.  The house smells.  And not in a good way.  The aroma of stale pizza and staler bodies lingers.

Maya sits in her chair and again considers calling some kind of health care professional.  But who?  And she isn’t ready to admit the severity of her problem or to surrender the solution to someone else.  So she sits and wonders if there is a perfume or a different deodorant she should try.  She concentrates so hard on trying to avoid washing and yet appear hygienic that she completely misses the little contingent that comes up the sidewalk and rings the doorbell.

“Geoff,” she calls, when she sees that its Jayne and the crew from last Thursday’s lunch.  “Get the door.  Tell them I’m sick.”  She duck walks to the hallway hoping that her knees hold out and that she is far enough down to avoid being seen through the living room window.

She hears Geoff grumbling but he goes to the door .

“Hi, Jayne, Carol, Simone.  C’mon in.  I’ll get Mom.” 

From the corner of her eye, she sees him turn and stop mid-step as he sees her squatting partway down the hall.

Geoff opens his mouth to speak but no sound emerges. 

Jayne speaks first.  “What on earth are you doing, Maya?”  She crosses the living room in three strides and taking Maya’s hands, pulls her upright.

“Oh, my,” says Simone.  “What is that smell?”  She holds a perfectly manicured hand over her nose and Maya can see her blue eye widen in alarm.  “Is something rotting in here?” Her fingers muffles this last question.

Maya is as speechless as her son.  What can she say?  She can only imagine how it looks to her friends.  Okay, looking isn’t likely so bad but smells.  She knows it’s bad but maybe she doesn’t know how bad because one accommodates, doesn’t one?  It’s like forking manure in a barn.  Initially you wonder how you will manage to get the job done and then you forget and it’s like the stench doesn’t exist.

Give Carol credit.  She joins Jayne and then actually hugs Maya. 

“Oh, you poor thing,” she says.  “Why didn’t you tell us?  We can help.”

Her kindness is Maya’s undoing.  She finds her voice and says, “I’m sorry.  I know it’s crazy but I can’t stand to…to wash.”

“We know,” says Jayne.  “Carol actually figured it out.  After lunch last week.  The smell was kind of bad.  And your hair…”

“But we’ve got help,” Simone chimes in from between her pink-tipped fingers.  “We have an appointment for you with a psychologist.  She specializes in phobias and similar conditions.”

 

 

A couple of months pass.  On a sunny Thursday, Maya has her first quick shower. She doesn’t wash her hair but it is a shower.  She revels in how wonderful she feels once she dries off.  Her new sweater in a spring-like green brings out flecks of the same shade in her hazel eyes.  She runs a comb through her hair and decides to read a little before going out for groceries.  Geoff rattles around in his room- occupying himself with mysterious projects.  Maya worries that he’s watching porn but she puts the concern out of her mind.  If he’s just watching…

She settles into her favourite chair and reaches for the new mystery by Giles Blunt.  She opens the book, then looks up before starting.  Maya sees a familiar car pulling up to the curb.  Oh, Gawd.  It’s Jayne and Simone and Carol.  The whole crew.  She sighs.  They have been extremely supportive.  You couldn’t ask for better friends and yet…

Maya fervently wishes they could find a new project; someone else to help.  She is appreciative, yet now that she’s on the road to recovery, their hovering is suffocating her.  She considers going into the basement and leaving Geoff to answer the door but she knows that would be unfair to him and to her friends.

The doorbell chimes- loud and insistent.  Maya hesitates and then gets up and opens the door.  Awkwardly she pats her hair.

“Honestly,” she says.  “I just showered.  I know my hair isn’t wet but it didn’t really need washing.  I’m getting better all the time.  Really.”

Her friends step around her and sit gingerly on the edge of the couch and in her easy chair.  Maya stands looking at them uncertainly.  Then she says, “Honestly I don’t need another intervention.  I’m starting to like showering and washing.”

Simone says, “Oh, Maya.  We know that.  That’s not why we’re here.” 

She looks to Carol who squirms uncomfortably and when she says nothing, Jayne says, “I’m sorry, Maya.  This is an intervention for Geoff.”

Carol finds her voice, “He’s got to go, Maya.  You’ve got to get rid of Geoff.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           

Reviews

[Ice Girl]

good job!