I was reflecting on the past week Sunday night, proud of how much I had achieved. I am absolutely insane with my “to do” lists. I write one every single day, and rarely do they have less than a dozen bullet points. Saturday in particular stands out in my mind. I vacuumed every rug in the house, swept all the hardwood floors, wet-wiped the baseboards and corners and behind every door. Each wooden step was cleaned by hand and every windowsill wiped until gleaming.

Oh, also on Saturday, I tested negative for COVID-19.

Yep, all my cleaning was a manic response to one of the most stressful weeks of my life. Early in the week, my husband, 23-year-old son and I got our first test. My husband, Brian, is a teacher and several of his co-workers and several students tested positive. We were all worried. But all of us tested negative.

Time to relax, right? Wrong.

Brian decided he didn’t trust the results. He was feeling bad and had a fever. I thought it silly, but I supported him in taking a second test midweek at a Cleveland Clinic testing location, rather than a drive-through location.

He tested positive.

Panic. Real panic. On went the masks indoors. Out came the Clorox wipes. Cue the high blood pressure and googling of home cures for COVID.

After nearly a full year of obsessively dodging the spiky ball of sickness (have you seen the artist’s renditions of the virus?) it was in our house. Much as I hate to admit it, my husband and I are no longer in our 30s. (That’s always a shock, by the way.) I was deeply worried and the worst-case scenarios flashed hard for people in our age group. But my first order of business was letting everyone I’d had contact with during the week know of the diagnosis. That didn’t take long — as I mentioned, we are very careful and have little contact outside the house. I work mostly virtually, with only one day of in-office work for newspaper proofreading and production.

On Thursday, the day we found out, I immediately called the Cleveland Clinic to arrange for a test. I was turned down. You apparently have to be showing symptoms before the Clinic will test you. That logic enraged me, even taking into consideration my emotions were right on the surface. I didn’t yell. But I was angry.

The earliest I could get a test at another location was on Saturday at 3:15 p.m. My son got an appointment at 2:45 p.m., also on Saturday. Thus the manic cleaning on Saturday. I literally put “wipe steps” on the to-do list just so I could cross it off.

At 3 p.m., I jumped in the car and drove to the Walgreens in Lakewood for my test. I saw my son leaving as I arrived. Within two hours, we both had our results: Both negative.

Yes, I was grateful. Very grateful. But that still left a husband who had tested positive. We are blessed that he is showing almost no symptoms. Besides the fever, he had what he termed “cold and flu” feelings. Statistically, we dodged a bullet. And I hate to even talk about almost asymptomatic COVID. People are dying by the thousands out there. As of Sunday, nearly 440,000 had died in the United States, with more than 26 million cases. Globally, there have been 2.23 million deaths. That compares to the 407,316 Americans who died in all of World War II. Quite a statistic, right?

The Love family became part of those statistics last week. But we were thankful not only to have avoided the worst-case scenario, but also for the outpouring of love from friends and family.

We are truly blessed.

Contact this reporter at editor@westlifenews.com or 440-871-5797.

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