Ode To My Thermometer

OCTOBER 18, 2020

October 18, 2020

Oh, childhood thermometer
I loved you so
In your weird old black plastic faux pen-case,
Where the top didn’t really tightly screw
and the base had a little hole in the tip
(to let out the air?)

 You were a loyal temperature-taker for as long as I can remember.

I smuggled you out of my mother’s house, when we cleaned out her hold-all cup, the one that sat on the telephone table next to her chair. You were jammed in there, among old ink pens and crossword pencils. Pencils so old their yellow bodies were textured with bite marks of thought, their erasers solid concrete.

Thankfully I didn’t need to use you too often. But that Friday night at 1:45 in the morning, boy was I sick. Awoke freezing and shaking. Still I managed to fish you out of my nightstand drawer. And shake you down; that was not easy. I had to really snap my wrist to get your mercury line below normal.

Even at 1:45 AM, freezing and sick, I managed to snap you down. The little arrow marking 98.6 normal. I shook you down and I placed you under my tongue.  Three minutes later I took you out and read over 101-- nearly 102!  Kind of a high fucking fever if you ask me. I groaned and forced myself out of bed, to get Tylenol and the heating pad.

In the morning, 6:00AM I shook you down again. And I put you under my tongue again. And I still had fever 101+. More Tylenol. Texted my doctor.  In the afternoon I added in some Advil, and finally started feeling better. I was worried that I had Covid. But with no other symptoms, it seemed I was just having a reaction to the flu shot I had Friday at 6 PM.  I drank Gatorade, to make sure I still had my taste buds. Very reassuring to have my sense of taste and smell. Gatorade was still putrid. Cloying. No sore throat. Probably not Covid.

It was now Saturday early evening, around 5 PM. Funky old thermometer, you were still laying on top of my nightstand, in your skinny black case. When I decided to tidy up my nightstand, somehow you went rolling slowly off the back.  I didn’t even think you would break; you were in your case, and you merely rolled off. There were many cords and plugs behind the nightstand that I figured you would be sitting on top of the tangle.

But when I looked I saw you had exploded! Sprung free of your case. I couldn’t believe my eyes! And I couldn’t believe that my childhood thermometer was gone! Just like that! Even before my temperature was normal. This was a disaster.  I got out my phone to look up how to clean up mercury.

Everything online recommended extreme measures; call poison control, wear hazmat gear, warned against the vacuum, warned against sweeping with a broom and instead suggested a painstakingly slow method of using a squeegee. The idea was to create as little motion as possible while slowly and gently coaxing the little balls of mercury into one larger ball.

I needed a second opinion. So, I jumped online and posted in my nerdiest Facebook group, and also on Twitter. Help, how do I clean up mercury from my thermometer?

I really wasn’t up to this task, I felt very overwhelmed both at losing my beautiful old glass thermometer, and not feeling particularly well, and definitely not wanting to be on the floor cleaning up a hazardous mercury spill.  Why does such crazy shit always happen to me? I don’t feel good. I don’t want to clean up a mercury and glass spill. I am anxious about the process.

I’m wearing the big guns N95 mask and extra tough gloves and now the Internet is saying I should have windows open and not have dogs or children in the room. I send little Mini out of my bedroom. I get out my super LED flashlight and shine it slowly across the floor and then I see it; a large spray of mercury balls glittering across my area rug.

Like tiny lice nits, these little mercury balls are everywhere. I wanted to cry. Or maybe I was already crying. I decide I have to take the rug out. Carefully folding it in upon itself to contain the mercury, I slide it towards my exterior bedroom door.  The door is jammed of course, because I never routinely open it. And good thing there wasn’t a fire, only a mercury explosion. Because the door was really stuck. So, I struggle to get the door unstuck, and once opened I carefully and slowly drag the rug out. Leaving it in the backyard. Figuring I’ll deal with it in the morning.

Next, I get down on the floor, with the headlight on shooting the bright beam across the floor, and I see micro balls of mercury. They are everywhere. I clean up what I can, using two pieces of cardboard to gently coax the mercury into a single large ball. I’m wearing gloves, the N95, have trash bags and ziplock baggies. I have a paper plate with a wet paper towel on it.  I pick up most of the glass. I have several different zip bags, everything goes into the bags as I change gloves and get another N95 mask. I take everything and put it outside. And tomorrow I will put it in the trash.

I’m back in denial and I’m pacing around my bedroom and I’m trying to talk myself down. It’s not that big of a deal, I tell myself.  Just a teeny amount of mercury, I cleaned most of it up. It’s not going to get airborne and into my lungs. The windows are still wide open. But then I get anxious and I don’t want to deal with it. So, I leave the bedroom and slam the door. I sleep on the couch until nearly two in the morning. This time I wake up but I am not sick, I just want my bed. And in my denial and my quest for a cozy night’s rest, I go back into my bed. In the morning and in the light of day, I can see quite clearly there are many more micro balls of mercury sprayed under my bed, and all the way across the room, in front of the media cabinet. It’s a micro mercury murder scene.

I decide I need to throw the other area rug out, this one too big for me to handle alone. I call my son-in-law who lives close by. My daughter and son-in-law come over in the afternoon. I read them what the internet says. She waits outside with the dogs.

I give him the flashlight after I feel he’s properly fitted with a mask and gloves.  When he aims the light across the floor, he can see the million mercury balls, and understands why I’m so upset. He helps me get the door open and the large rug out and then we start the mercury cleanup process again.

We move the chair, then the bed and using small pieces of cardboard dipped in shaving cream we dab these little balls and finish cleaning up. It’s painstakingly slow but the Internet warns against sending the mercury airborne. So, we work slowly dabbing and cleaning. I know my son in law thinks I’m nuts. But I’m scared of inhaling mercury. Worried for the dogs and being very ridiculous.  But I can’t help myself. And I’m grateful he helps me.  And grateful that he’s kind about these situations, which occur more than I’d like to admit. 

All the while I’m dabbing mercury with shaving cream, I’m also feeling nostalgic for my thermometer. It was kind of my buddy anytime I was sick, an artifact of my childhood. I can remember my mom shaking it down, putting it under my tongue and sitting on my bed waiting. A worried look on her face.

I can remember when I learned that if I took it out of my mouth when she wasn’t looking and rubbed it really fast on the sheets I could make a fever appear for the days I didn’t want to go to school. I also learned that during the art of making a fake-fever you don’t want to make too high of a fever because then you would have to go to the doctor AND your mother would stay home from work as well. That was terrible and I might as well go to school. So, I learn exactly how many rubs on the sheet for a nice low-grade fake-fever. Nothing over 100.

As my son in law and I finish the last dabs of shaving cream ‘n mercury, I say a silent goodbye to my trusty old glass thermometer. I thank it for hanging out with me for over 50 years.

And I wish that someone could just shake me down to normal.