When my son, Isaac, was a year old, our family crash-landed in Brookline, Mass., for medical reasons. My husband was recovering from a near fatal blood-clotting episode and weeks in the I.C.U. It was very far away from where we had started as expatriates working in Dubai, the jet-setting city we’d long called home. We settled in New England, uncertain if my husband would ever work again or if he needed a high-risk brain surgery. But the doctors told us we were lucky, the odds had strongly been in favor of his death.
Then, a year after we moved, I woke up one morning with spots in my eye. I visited five specialists before finding out I have an autoimmune disease that could threaten my sight. My vision is currently preserved by a strong cocktail of medicines, but that could change at any point.
Before the coronavirus, we felt giddy to be alive; to be parents together, to be back to work and starting to build a new life for ourselves, one in which my husband was healthy enough to run races with our son in the park across the street from our home, just like the other fathers. Then the pandemic struck and the bottom dropped out for us — and for the rest of the world.
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