A repeating theme: I need to wash my hands

I need to wash my hands.

I need to wash my hands before putting food into my mouth at a swanky downtown restaurant. The wheelchair symbol restroom door is heavy and I can’t navigate it by myself; a server walks by and holds it open. Timely for me she was there. I wonder how I’ll open the door on my way out. I’m alone in the restroom. The stall is small and awkwardly designed. I barely fit, yet it’s new and pretty. I’m wedged in the stall and jostle my wheelchair from side to side for seven minutes until I’m free. Should I have called 9-1-1? I’m sweating, is my dinner getting cold?

I need to wash my hands. At the sink I can’t reach the soap, the dispenser is on the far back wall next to the sign telling employees they must wash their hands. The towel machine is above my head on the other wall. The faucet handles are hard to turn and the water trickles. The trash can opens when you step on a lever. I’m dressed-up, carrying a small purse where there’s no room for hand sanitizer, soap, hand wipes and towels.

I need to wash my hands. My friend just died from staph-induced sepsis. Sepsis is a blood infection.

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