The Strange Weight of Laundry

There was a short period in my preteen years when my family was without a working washing machine.

We were forced to bundle up all the dirty laundry and drive to a laundromat to get everything clean. For some reason I can't explain to you now, I was enchanted by this magical space where you could get everything done at once instead of stacking your least favourite chore in a long line that took up your whole Saturday, one load after the next.

When Michael and I were on our glorious Christmas Market trip across Europe by train in 2024, we built in laundromat stops in a few cities so we could pack light. In Bruges we found one advertised as "trendy and cool" with photos of young, beautiful people having a blast while doing laundry. I fell hard for their content and added it to our itinerary. We recreated the goofy, jolly photos from their social media account during our visit to wash our heavy winter clothing mid-trip. Our morning in the laundromat was so ridiculous and memorable and we laughed way too hard for the comfort of the matron in charge of the space, who probably thought we'd been dipping into the mulled wine far too early in the day.

But that is how it always was with Michael, there was no such thing as a mundane or tedious task when we did it together. It was all joy.

In Asia our washing machines often double as dryers, an hours-long all-in-one experience which never seems to get the job fully done. One of our flats only had a washer, which meant hanging everything to dry above a dehumidifier, necessary in Hong Kong's humid environment where nothing is ever truly free from moisture. Great for the skin, I always say, but less so for bath towels which can quickly go mouldy after a couple uses if you don't leave the fan running around the clock.

Following Michael's diagnosis with acute leukemia, we were given a list of best practices for home hygiene to keep him as healthy as possible while severely immunocompromised. During his bone marrow transplant, the best practices became rigid requirements of things we would commit to so Michael could safely return home from the sterile environment of the transplant ward. One of the non-negotiable items was a weekly (curtains), twice-weekly (bedding), or daily (all clothing and towels) heavy washing of all the soft goods in our bedroom. Everything had to be dried on high heat or ironed so no residual bacteria or fungal growth could harm Michael with his lack of immune system.

In our last flat we had a separate washer and dryer, smaller than what you'd find in America but still extremely handy considering how much laundry we had to do every single day after Michael's diagnosis. In our washing machine we could fit our sheets and a duvet cover. We could fit a set of curtains. But we could not fit our king size duvet. That had to be taken to the laundromat to go in the industrial sized machines. Because the bedding had to be changed twice a week, I immediately went out and bought two additional duvets so we could switch to a fresh one immediately then wash the dirty one later instead of trying to do everything in a single day, twice a week.

Taking care of everything Michael could no longer do and accompanying him to his thrice-weekly testing and infusion appointments at Queen Mary Hospital meant the actual task of physically going to the laundromat and waiting 40 minutes to wash then 40 minutes to dry eventually had to become someone else's regular task. That fell to my oldest son, who was at the time completing his university degree in graphic design and had the most flexible schedule. I still did it myself on occasion because it just had to be done, doctor's orders.

After Michael died, I couldn't bear to wash the duvet he'd slept under the last night in his home before being admitted to the ICU.

I'd already swapped out to a clean one, but the dirty one just sat by the door in a rainbow IKEA bag, ready for a trip to the laundromat. When my friend Roberto asked if there was anything at all I needed done, I said yes- washing the duvet. I would put the IKEA bag outside my door for someone else to collect, clean, and bring back. He arranged for that to happen (thank you Bernice and thank you Roberto!) so the weight of that one strangely heavy task was lifted.

We've been in our new, smaller flat for several months now. I sold our huge king sized bed that didn't fit in my new room, swapping it out for my oldest son's twin bed and getting him a new one which better fit the unique layout of his new room. I kept one of the king sized duvets though, just folding it in half so it still fits the single bed. I like the weight and bulk of it. I recently changed the filter in my air purifier and cleaned my air conditioner, which is when I would habitually wash all the biggest blankets and duvets long before Michael ever got sick. I figured it was time to take care of this task. Nothing was stopping me from going to the laundromat. I had the time but somehow couldn't summon the energy. I finally tricked myself into going by washing the duvet cover at home, knowing I would not be willing to go through the huge effort of putting it back on the duvet if it wasn't yet laundered.

It was awful and exhausting. Every first thing done alone without Michael has been less than awesome, but it's always a big surprise when the most innocuous-seeming things jump up to bite me unexpectedly. I wondered why I even cared to wash it at all anymore (some people go years without washing them and I always shower before bed so it surely wasn't that dirty), and then puzzled over how we managed to do this long, tedious task twice a week (seriously how did we do this repeatedly, multiple times a week, for almost six months?) and questioned if there was ever really a point in my life going to the laundromat had seemed whimsical or fun (good thing photo evidence exists, see above).

I'd brought a book to pass the time but couldn't focus, reading the same page over and over again and retaining nothing. I stood on the waterfront which usually has a view of fishing boats and Hong Kong Disneyland, but my eyes didn't take in anything. I bought my favourite vanilla oatmilk latte from my favourite cheery barista (hi Ria!) and wondered briefly if I had one of those old covid strains because I could perceive no flavour despite watching her pump the syrup into my cup. All the joy was gone, yes, but also absent was the more expected neutral-ish non-feeling of completing a general task, like mailing a letter or filling up a water bottle. It was way too heavy, this thing we used to do regularly to keep Michael alive.

Eighty minutes later my duvet was clean and dry. I went home to wrestle the cover back on, always a two person task for me but this time completed without my second person. It was only 5:00 pm when I finished everything, but the only thing I wanted to do was take my shower, put on clean pajamas, and climb into my freshly made bed. So I did, and then slept all the way through to the next morning.

I constantly wonder how in the world we managed to do any of what we did during the last year of Michael's life.

There was persistent momentum, an almost supernatural force which kept us moving forward, completing each necessary task because it all went toward a common purpose: to keep Michael here with us, to get him healthy and well for our long life ahead together. Everything that didn't serve that goal was put on pause for some other time when we weren't in constant crisis mode. We made mundane activities meaningful because it was what we had to work with. Now that Michael isn't here, the mundane isn't just devoid of meaning, it's suffocating and heavy.

Of course everything still feels exhausting. I am not only missing the practical, physical assistance Michael constantly provided during our many years together, but also the less tangible things like his flirty encouragement and solid, steadying presence. Every day I discover a new facet to this terrible loss, and every day I have a moment where I'm fully convinced I'm not going to make it one more day. And then, irregardless of my fairly strong feelings on the matter, the next day arrives and my broken heart continues to beat.

More soon.

P.S. for the Americans here... I've recently started two writing/editing projects which require everything to be in British English instead of American English. I updated my computer settings to autocorrect that direction so I don't have to go back and replace all the favorites with favourites. So that is why everything in today's newsletter might look so fancy to you. I'm not being pretentious, I just didn't swap it back. Also, right before I went to hit publish, I reread everything one last time and realised a duvet was something I only learned about and began using when we left America. So on the slim chance you're the one person scratching your head on that one, imagine a big fluffy comforter that is plain white, which you stuff into a cover similar to a giant pillowcase open at one end. This cover acts as an easily washable "top sheet" against your skin instead of making your bed with a fitted sheet, a flat sheet, and then adding a blanket/quilt/comforter on top. It's hard to find sheet sets here that include a flat sheet (it's mostly a fitted sheet + duvet cover only), so we have embraced the European (and Asian) duvet system. Considering how badly my kids hated that top sheet and would kick it down and just wrap up in their quilt when they were little, I wish I'd known about this far easier bedding option much earlier!