It was a regular Thursday night. My youngest and I were boxing up beloved toys that she hadn’t touched in months. We were creating spaces for new projects sorely needed now that so much of our lives centered around home.
Out of nowhere, my stomach began hurting. I felt hot and tingly. The thermometer confirmed I had a fever.
Had I contracted the virus?
My mind began racing: Had I picked up coronavirus somehow in the last few days? There was an infection spike happening in our town. What did that mean for my family? What about others I had recently come in contact with?
I went to bed and hoped I would feel fine in the morning.
The next day, when the thermometer beeped its warning and flashed its red light, hour after hour, I knew I could no longer wish this away.
I called the doctor. Got…