My dad was the first one to go. Soon after it was announced that the disease had entered  the country, he started coughing and saying that he wasn’t feeling so well. He rested and drank  lots of fluids, as you’re supposed to do when you’ve got a flu, but he never did get better. It  wasn’t until he was choking almost to death and we had to rush him to the hospital that we  learned just how sick he was. His lungs got so bad that they gave out and he had to be put on a  ventilator. But in the end, even that wasn’t enough to save him. 

Soon after we buried him, my mama started having the same symptoms. It was around  the time that I learned I was pregnant with my son. I was freaked out because things were getting  bad now; people were losing their jobs and everything. My husband said that he’d never leave  me, that he would stay for the two of us no matter what happened. Looking back, I shouldn’t  have taken him at his word. 

Turns out Mom would last much longer against the virus than Dad did. She would get really sick, then get better, then relapse, and on and on. My brother and I had to spend every waking moment either tending to or watching over her, because we never knew when things would get better or worse. Well, all that exposure to her got the both of us infected. For a short  time, it was the three of us, all coughing up a storm and being miserable together. But soon  Mama lost her fight, and I had to bury the second parent in just a few months. 

But the worst was yet to come. By God’s grace, I got better quickly, but the same couldn’t be said for my brother. His blood pressure spun out of control, which lead to blood clots floating around inside him, which lead to all manner of strokes and heart attacks. It was the fifth or sixth one that did him in, in a sense. After that one, he ended up in a coma that the doctors couldn’t wake him from. They told me that he wouldn’t last more than six weeks in that  condition, and it was time to say my goodbyes. To this day, it’s still the hardest thing I’ve ever  done in my life. 

With no other options, I started over in our beach house. My son came just as I’d gotten  myself settled in the place. I called the town midwife and she helped me deliver him at my new  home. Then she drove the three of us to the hospital, and that’s the day I truly regard as the start of my new life. I gave my boy his grandfather’s and uncle’s names; I’m not gonna forget them anytime soon.