Shortly after Catherine was diagnosed with cancer she was matched with an anonymous volunteer peer, someone who knew more of the drill, for emotional and logistical support.
The lasting effect of their very first phone call was the recommendation that, to prepare for times when Catherine would be immune-compromised, we switch to using individual hand towels in the washroom. In a sea of “there’s nothing to be done” this was a thing to do.
A so a trip to Sears was made, a case of hand towels purchased, and the upstairs and downstairs washrooms stocked.
The weekly gathering, laundering, and folding of these towels continues to this day, outliving Catherine and the reasons that begat it.
But I continue, both because at this point the notion of sharing a single towel for drying the household hands seems a violation of good public health guidance, and more so because it’s a comforting ritual, folding warm towels while Olivia gets ready for bed on Sunday nights.