I began my usual routine of checking all the pockets, and then rechecking them again. I made the mistake only once of not checking the pockets. That was when CA Cop was in the academy and the lint that resulted from the index card that went through the washing machine had the cadet in a frenzy as to what his punishment might be if every last microscopic piece of lint was not removed from the uniform. So I check the pockets now. Every time.
I handled the uniform this time with extra care. Holding it with as little part of my hand and fingers as possible. My mind started thinking about the "individuals" that he comes in contact with and I quick rinsed my hands off in the water pouring into the washing machine. I flipped the shirt inside out, zipped it up, and secured the top button, just as I have been "instructed" to do. Tossed it into the foamy waters that smelled delightful and grabbed the pants. As my gaze followed the pants into the suds I thought about my washing machine. There was blood on that uniform. Blood that would now be swirled around my washing machine. My washing machine that washes my baby's clothes, my clothes.
"How much blood is on this thing?" I shouted at the off duty cop reclining in our family room. He could hear the bit of repulsion in my voice, knew that his germ-a-phobic wife was getting grossed out.
He assured me that he was "pretty sure" that blood was "probably just" his partners'.
I shut the washing machine and ran to the bathroom to scrub my compromised hands.
So washing the uniform at home is a new "luxury" for us. The old uniforms were dry clean only so I never thought about blood and other ickies that could be lurking about on the fabric that he adorns each shift. But now I think about it.
Perhaps I should try not to.....