I hated every single thing about this insidious disease ... I would have given anything ― my home, my limbs, my life ― to banish it. But its tentacles were too strong.

I hadn’t realized there was a name for what I felt. I didn’t recognize the pain that came and went as grief. But there it was — ambiguous grief is mourning the loss of aspects of a person who is still alive. Now that I knew there was a name for the sadness, I finally felt like I had permission to feel it. I could miss the parts of my daughter that were gone and grieve the life we might have had without giving in or giving up. I felt lighter.

Shawna was 23 years old when we first met her. She looked like a Kardashian, had a cool and tough veneer like Angelina Jolie mixed with a bit of Ronda Rousey, and possessed the patience, understanding, and commitment of Anne Sullivan. She was a fierce girl with a heart of gold. I never would have thought she’d become my 10-year-old daughter’s best friend.

The third time was supposed to be a charm. After all, if I could plan a bar mitzvah for my son with ADHD and a bat mitzvah for my daughter, who is severely disabled, then surely I’d breeze through my mainstream son’s entrance to manhood with aplomb.

You hunkered down, you wore your mask, you bathed in hand sanitizer. You were vaccinated. At long last you were promised a summer that would feel normal. You went back to your favorite restaurant and went on the vacation you cancelled last year. And then you found out that one of the vaccinated people you met for dinner tested positive for Covid. You are consumed by confusion.