This seems to be the second in what could become a series of ‘What not to do in your mask’.*
In this case, it was prompted by an unhappy visit to the vet with one of my two ageing cats. She’s been getting thinner and more withdrawn, and she’d started leaving us daily pools of vomit on the kitchen floor. I steeled myself to do something about it.
Due to Coronavirus measures at the vet surgery, we have to remain outside in the tiny car-park and notify the receptionist of our arrival, then go round to the busy road at the front of the building and wait there at the appointed time with our animal. The vet takes the basket and its occupant indoors (we can’t manage to squeeze into the basket so we remain outside watching the traffic), and then returns to explain what she’s found and what we could or should do.
After the second consultation, there was a conclusion. Palliative care only. I was on my own outside this time and the vet took me just around the corner, to a pavement a little away from the worst of the traffic noise, to tell me and to discuss how we can look after our lovely cat until the end.
How bizarre it seemed. Trying to hold it together, two metres apart, both wearing masks so our voices needed to be slightly raised despite wanting to be gentle about all this. My fabric mask was soaked from the top and the inside by the end of it. I suppose I was aware that some of my worse grimacing was at least partially hidden throughout. Of course, the resulting nasal congestion made it almost impossible to breathe whilst the soggy mask remained in place, but it had to stay put until the vet had retrieved the cat in her basket from inside the surgery and I had wobbled back with her to the car-park.
A few minutes to sit and ponder, bare-faced at last. At least the breathing was easier, and I could remove the residual snot from my face.
Then to realise that the car-park really is very small, I had parked forwards in the only remaining space and no-one had yet moved (where the hell were all these people? I had been the only visible ‘patient’) leaving me no easy way to get out.
Days later, I am still hugely impressed that I managed to manoeuvre my now seemingly pointlessly large car, and eventually reverse through the high-gate-posted entrance/exit – all whilst still gently weeping. I suppose it gave me some mental focus, a type of distraction therapy.
I hope they get some fun from watching on the CCTV. It is perhaps therapy for the poor vets as they try and clean up their own masks too.
*Previous What not to do in a mask – Don’t run in your mask