I will never forget the day my son was born when the nurse came in and announced that he had just received his first vaccination. I was surprised and said, “What for?” and she said for “Hepatitis B”. Having had knowledge about how the virus is transmitted and knowing that the only potential ways he could get it was from having sexual intercourse with an infected partner, eating tainted shellfish or sharing dirty IV needles, I said, “How could he possibly be at risk for that?” and she said well, “He could get it from you.” I said, well I have already had the series of vaccines for Hepatitis B since I worked in the medical field. All she said was, “Oh”.

I pleaded with my son to not take the experimental gene therapy (I refuse to call it a vaccine since it does not meet any of the criteria and definition of a vaccine) that his college had mandated. Having had bad reactions to vaccines as an infant I feared that he would not do well with it. I had the paperwork all ready for a religious exemption for him. Having struggled with online learning over the last year and half he was afraid that his college would require him to continue online or impose other restrictions on him for not having the injections and went ahead and got the Moderna shot. After 7 days he experienced acute chest pain and what he described as someone stabbing him in his heart with a knife for 24 hours straight. He was afraid to tell me about it since he knew how I felt about him getting it in the first place.

My mother passed on May 31, 2020, two days before her 85th birthday. She died alone in a nursing home during the lockdown. She had tested positive for COVID-19 but was asymptomatic. My mother remained asymptomatic of COVID symptoms up to her death. She was denied her kidney dialysis due to testing positive for COVID-19. Dialysis was the only thing keeping her alive because she was in end-stage renal disease and not a candidate for a kidney transplant.

I had only been living in New Orleans for about 7 months when COVID-19 mandatory lockdowns began. I was working as a waitress—22, college graduate, a little over $1000 in savings. I hadn’t been in the workforce long enough to even qualify for unemployment but that didn’t change the fact that rent would still be due in the coming months. My whole life had flipped. I could no longer do most of the things I enjoyed. Getting drinks with my friends or even seeing them within the comforts of my home was no longer an option. All three of my roommates were scared, too, so they sought solace in retreating to their childhood homes. I tried working out at home to keep me busy, but it just wasn’t the same as trying to use a chair in place of a bench and bands in place of weights.

Prior to COVID-19 lockdowns and restrictions our family was thriving. My husband and I were working in jobs we love and living with our family in a beautiful area, actively engaged in our church, schools, and community. I am a mother of three children, including a 12 year-old daughter that lives with intellectual disability and has always received special education support and therapies through the school district. Our daughter needed extra help and lived with a perpetually childlike view of the world, but she was happy, thriving, and growing in her own ways and on her own timeline. Still, her successful navigation of the world has always relied heavily on a very consistent routine and the dedicated support of her team of professionals.

“Is this your first child?” our pediatrician asked. I nodded. “Okay, your daughter is incredibly bright.” I was told after describing the milestones she had reached as of her one year birthday. She was speaking and obediently retrieving her shoes when I asked her. She loved shoes.

I was so proud of myself for making every baby well visit. I decided Mt. Sinai hospital was the best in all of New York City and so I rode the hour long train ride there from Brooklyn at every interval as they trained me to do. One month, three month, six month, one year. I thought I was the world’s best mom.