The Germ Freak's Guide to Outwitting Colds and Flu: Guerilla Tactics to Keep Yourself Healthy at Home, at Work and in the World - Softcover

Introduction

I wasn't born a Germ Freak. I ate my requisite "pound of dirt before I die" when I was two.My mother was hardly a model of pristine housekeeping.My sisters and I played with dust bunnies the size of desert tumbleweeds, thought spring cleaning meant opening the windows, and until my parents moved from our childhood home, we'd gather in their dining room on holidays and glance at the two-inch hard spot on the rug, fondly remembering our longdeceased dog Heidi who threw up there when I was six. We didn't reap the hygienic benefits of hypoallergenic baby washes; we took consecutive baths in the same water to save money. We didn't have HEPA filters, although my father switched to filtered cigarettes once we were born. And, like most levelheaded mothers, ours preferred spit shine to sanitizer—and we survived.

In college, I shared communal living space without donning flipflops in the bathroom or worrying whose toothbrush touched mine; I drank from community beer pitchers and shared my first apartment with cockroaches the size of small rats without thinking twice.

Yet two events in my life—two people really—changed my outlook on germs.

The Birth of Triplets: A Girl, a Boy and a Germ Freak of Nature

My twin daughter and son were born four minutes apart and seven weeks premature. They spent the first two weeks of life in an ICU sporting enough tubes and beeping apparatuses to make any new parent jittery. Upon entering the ICU, Nurse CleanUp Commando led us to a tub-sized basin sink and gave us the handwashing drill: "Take off any watches and rings and use the scrub brush to remove all dirt from under your nails because it could be dangerous to your newborns' underdeveloped immune system." (Underdeveloped?) As I unwrapped the brush from its sterile casing, it occurred to me that I had never given a thought as to what might possibly be growing under my watch or wedding ring, neither of which I had taken off since the previous leap year.

Thankfully, our children had no health issues and were discharged with no dire warnings except to keep them away from "Obviously Sick People."

Once home, my husband and I adjusted to new parenthood as best as you can if neither of you have ever held a baby,much less two at once. Underestimating the number of diapers they'd deplete in a week (who knew one package wouldn't be enough?!), I went to the pharmacy to stock up. As I stood in line, I saw the contents of my fellow shopper's basket through sleep-deprived eyes: NyQuil, Vicks Cold and Flu, and three boxes of Kleenex. Just as I was about to move away from this Obviously Sick Person, it happened. I think I felt it the same time I heard it—a big, wet, warm pellet of sneeze. And before I really knew what hit me (literally), another sneeze and a throat clearing that sounded like a seal on steroids. I'd been contaminated! Grabbing the diapers ("No, I don't need my receipt!"), I held my breath all the way to the parking lot and then sucked in as much healthy outside air as I could.

Less than two days later, when I heard the "feed-me" wails times two, I couldn't lift my head from the pillow. It took all the strength I had to sit up, and my reflection in the mirror was a far cry from the glowing moms gracing Pampers ads: I had glands the size of small golf balls, glassy eyes and a face that looked like . . . an Obviously Sick Person. Since my husband had gone to work, I tried to breast-feed my two kids with outstretched arms and inhaled breath. As soon as the babies fell asleep, I scanned the Yellow Pages for a walk-in clinic.

As I sat in the reception area filling out forms, I began the Waiting Room Once-Over: "Sicker than me," "Hypochondriac," "Stay away from him. . . ." One woman directly downwind of me kept coughing and sneezing, trying to nonchalantly inhale a stream of nasal discharge (okay, let's call a snot a snot). She tried to sniff it in to no avail, and then, lacking the energy or courtesy to walk three steps to get a tissue, she wiped her nose with her hand and then wiped her hand on her magazine.

The physician on call prescribed Cipro, a very potent drug notorious for treating anthrax (I now know his choice of antibiotic was not only wrong but dangerous: See antibiotic resistance page 35). He told me it was unlikely that my kids would catch what I had, although he didn't know what I had. He told me to stop breastfeeding because Cipro can be passed to infants, and assured me I'd be better in three to five days. Seven days later I still had Titleist glands. I went to see a throat specialist who prescribed a different drug, saying that if I got any worse, my tonsils would need to come out. Luckily, one week later, I was back to near-normal health. Yet due to one errant sneeze, I spent three weeks in bed, donning a surgical mask and gloves whenever I picked up my kids—hardly the "mother-child" bonding I'd read was so important.While my husband joked that our children's first view of me would cause them years of therapy, I wasn't laughing. A Germ Freak was born.

It doesn't matter how or why someone becomes a Germ Freak: It could be something in your gene pool or the community pool; it could be innate or something you ate that opened your eyes. But once it happens, you're forever changed: When others see an all-you-can-eat buffet and dive in, you see double-dippers helping themselves to an unrefrigerated seafood salad and order off the menu; when others spy their potential soul mate at a happy hour, you notice his pale complexion and move on to Bachelor Number Two. You don't live in a bubble, but you do live with a heightened sense of awareness. Like a psychic sees auras, you see someone's germ potential. Like a dog with acute hearing, your ears perk up when someone sneezes ten cubicles away.

While you'd think you'd be proud of this "sick-sense," many of us are in denial. Some Germ Freaks denounce the "Germ Freak" label, yet freely admit to blatant Germ Freak behavior: "I'm not a Germ Freak, but I never touch public restroom doorknobs." "I'm not a Germ Freak, but I bring my own sheets to hotels." Or the clincher, "I'm not a Germ Freak, but I wash my toothbrush with antibacterial soap before I brush my teeth." Ding, ding, ding: Germ Freak! This is your call not to hide your head—or your HandiWipes. By outing ourselves, we can break the stereotypes that Germ Freaks are high maintenance or walking around in "haz mat" suits: Among us are professional athletes who don't flinch when a 250-pound opponent tries to tackle them, but who cower when someone sneezes near them (and rightly so); CEOs who value a cohesive team but excuse themselves from a meeting if someone is coughing; parents who expose their kids to more experiences than prior generations but not the pathogens that go with them. In a word (well, two) we are Germ Freaks. And we should be congratulated, not condoned; applauded, not made fun of (okay, you can make fun of us a little). In this book I'll share the practical art of germ avoidance. You wouldn't step out in front of a car moving at fifty miles an hour, so why step in front of a sniffling person and be hit with a sneeze at ninetythree miles an hour? Most of us try to avoid inhaling other people's smoke, why not avoid inhaling their flu virus? I will show you how.

With the advice of infectious disease experts, you can stop wasting your time and money on things that supposedly guard against germs but may be totally useless—and downright harmful. You'll hear from other Germ Freaks: their pet peeves and guerilla tactics for staying healthy when everyone around them is hacking. You'll see what works, what's wasteful and what's just wacked. In this age of time-crunched doctors, busy schedules and insurance companies that pay for less, it's in our own best interest to take control of our health. I hope to help us clean up our collective act when it comes to illness. To help sick people get a clue . . . or at least a tissue. If I can save you from even one cold or flu, this book has paid for itself—and at the very least, you can use it to secretly wipe your nose.