After more than twenty-one months of managing my pandemic anxiety, I have come face-to-face with the enemy: Omicron. I had lowered my defenses. I counted on my anti-vax son (hereafter called Sonny) who works in home renovations to alert me when exposed to someone infected with the virus. He had done that in December 2020 when his cousin’s wife had contracted the virus. At the time, when he also became sick, he self-isolated in his then newly rented apartment, adjacent to ours. His older brother took care of his meals.

The Omicron variant is different. When Sonny returned home on Thursday, December 30, after completing a two-month home renovation project in Palm Springs, he was unaware of Omicron’s sneak attack. He complained of general muscle pain, not unusual in his line of construction work, and spent the evening resting. He did not mention having a fever. On New Year’s Eve, he and another cousin went to a house party to welcome the New Year with their friends.

On Monday, January 3, the cousin tested positive for the coronavirus. The next day, my firstborn and unvaccinated son, who has been working from home since the lockdown in March 2020, took in with flu symptoms. He decided to isolate in Sonny’s apartment with the hope that I would not get infected. Too late. My head cold and cough started the following day.