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Spore Wars

© Eugenia E. Gratto

One of my colleagues muttered this afternoon that he might need some therapy to deal with all this. He said this as we stood in another colleague's office, gathered around CNN, watching the numbers of exposed staffers in Senator Tom Daschle's office climb along the bottom of the screen. He said this as we gazed out on the Capitol building, gleaming white and pure in the October sun, gleaming as proudly and beautifully as it did on September 11. He said this as he considered the fact that he spent a half-hour in the Capitol gallery this morning, watching proceedings on the floor of one of the two Congressional bodies, and now wondered whether he ought to go get in the hundreds-deep line of people waiting to have their noses swabbed.

Here is what I know. I know that anthrax is not contagious from one person to another. I know that the inhaled version can probably kill you, but the skin version isn't nearly as dangerous. I know I don't open the mail for anyone important, that I'm not a member of the media, and that my job primarily deals with email, so my chances of getting a virus through Outlook are higher than my chances of opening a letter filled with anthrax spores.

I know that one Cipro pill twice a day will kill the bacteria. I know that there are several wide-spectrum antibiotics that also work if we run out of Cipro. I know that the likelihood of someone releasing this biological agent into the air around the Capitol and then having it actually affect those of us who work near the building is slim to none.

But I know that I am different now. I am sitting quietly and listening to my body more often. I am analyzing each small cough and each odd feeling, and only after I remind myself that it's allergy season, that I didn't drink enough water this morning, do I feel better, more grounded.

And I know the city is different now. We don't have trash cans or recycling bins in the Metro system anymore—too easy to hide bombs there. People are more vigilant, they look a little more on edge.

I woke up at 4 a.m. on Monday, heard the sound of F-16 engines, looked outside and saw the high, far gleam of lights from the wings of the combat patrols as they circled my city.

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