My daughter and I have a state of being we have labeled Too Many Steps. When we reach this place of unbearable overwhelm, there will surely be a meltdown, emotional outburst, argument, full depressive episode, a day or two of bed rot, or at the least, tears.

I reached Too Many Steps this evening. Overall, I had a restful day. I slept in, took a nice nap, mostly watched shows and attended book club via Zoom. Perhaps my brain is gearing up to return to my work schedule tomorrow after a much-needed weekend off. Or maybe I’m getting sick again; I certainly don’t feel fully recovered from the upper respiratory infection I have been fighting since before Christmas. What is that, over 20 days now? I can feel a new cold sore springing up, my nose is tender and raw from the drainage, and my lungs feel heavy.

Honestly, I feel a bit like I did when I had long COVID some time back—the fatigue, dizziness, winded just from walking across the room, depressed, irritable, a darkness that has reached down my throat, and the need to isolate, cocoon inside my covers and sleep. And in this already depleted state, I decided it was high time I take a shower. Some might think a shower would feel good, be relaxing, be a welcome distraction, or pleasant end to the day. Maybe on a normal day when I am well.

Today is not that day. As a person with a chronic condition, when my body is fighting illness, for some reason it attacks everything—my joints, my skin, my hair. My immune system doesn’t seem to know what is virus and what is me. Everything hurts. Right this second, the backs of my ears, my elbows, and my finger joints hurt—for no good reason. Anyway, undressing takes effort. Taking my hair down strains my right arm. Gathering the towels to dry off with is a chore. I place one towel carefully so I can sit when I get out of the shower because I cannot stand the length of time required to dry off without causing too much pain. Another towel, I place on the laundry hamper for my hair. I get the floor towel from its hanging spot and lay it on the floor, so I won’t slip when I get out of the shower. We can’t leave it on the floor because the cat has decided that is the best place to poop if it is left there. It is finally time to get in the shower. My energy is flagging, but I’m almost there. I can make it.

Nope, there is a pile of wet towels on the shower bench where I need to sit. You’ve got to be kidding. My daughter overloaded the washing machine earlier and had to take out some of the towels because the machine would not finish the spin cycle. She never came back to complete the task. I’m sure she forgot. It is now late in the evening, and everyone has gone to bed. It will take more energy to get someone to remove the towels, so I decide to handle it myself. My back screams at me with each hefting of sopping towels I plop onto another surface. I’m reaching the breaking point.

The self-contained shower-bath set-up I have is a wonderful jacuzzi-like seated bath situation with a locking door, lights, jets, the works. My grandparents got it to make bathing easier in their elder years. It is a wonderful contraption. However, it is built for skinny people. I must wedge myself through the sliver of a door opening to get in and it is uncomfortable. Then I must twist my body in a strange contortion to close the door and be able to sit inside the contraption. Once in, it is comfortable, but the mount and dismount are not graceful.

Door locked. Check. Suction cup portable shower head holder located. Check. Suction cup portable shower head holder placed in the perfect position to make my seated shower just right. Check. Made sure my shampoo is reachable. Check. Double made sure my conditioner is there because sometimes my granddaughter borrows it and forgets to return it. Check. I have made it. I have used all my remaining energy to get into the shower, but I am ready and seated, with everything I need. Then I take ahold of the hand-held shower head to stretch out the steel hose and fit it into the holder, but it only extends a few inches, then hangs on something inside the housing of the bathtub. It is the final straw…or hose…or whatever.

Too Many Steps has been reached. I begin to wail. I cry harder than I cried at my grandmother’s funeral. The grief that spills out of me is a tidal wave of pain. On a normal day, it would be logical to remove the portable shower head holder, unlock the door, dismount through the skinny door, open the side of the bath, and unstick the steel hose—like a grownup. But, no, not once Too Many Steps has been reached. At that point, the only logical option is to sit in the shower bath forever and cry.

I don’t know how long I stayed stuck in the land of Too Many Steps. Truly, I can’t tell you. There is no time there. It is only a place of I’m done, the end, it’s over, forget it, too bad, whatever the hell, I can’t, and no more. I might still be there had my husband not eventually come to my rescue, though our interaction was with raised voices, anger, and more tears because of other Too Many Steps that I won’t go into here.

I don’t know the moral to this story. I just thought I would describe Too Many Steps in case anyone else can relate, I suppose. Also, because this one seemed extra emotionally violent, I felt the need to write about it, hopefully processing some of what led to the limp, energyless, wet dishrag feeling I now embody. I can never predict which step will be the one upon which I will collapse, unable to climb even one more inch, but I can certainly relate to that poor camel, his knees buckling under the weight of the load, all his muscles straining to stay upright, carrying the burdens of the world until that one last straw.

Rebekah Marshall @Home Studio