The next day my temperature was back down to 97.1, but the UTI had worsened. I called the nearby urgent-care center to see if they could prescribe me a new antibiotic, but no one was answering the phone. Figuring the place was overwhelmed with coronavirus calls, I walked over to the urgent care, opened the front door, and poked my head in. “Hi,” I said. “I’m so sorry to bother you at this time, but no one’s answering your phones.” I explained that the antibiotic course I’d just finished hadn’t worked, and I needed a different prescription.

“Do you have a temperature?” I remember the receptionist asking, as she walked over to the door and handed me a mask. Wait, what?

“No. I had a slight fever yesterday. Can I just leave a message for the doctor? I don’t want to come in.” I could hear a hacking cough coming from one of the exam rooms.

“If you need a new antibiotic, you’ll have to pee in a cup again.”

“But you guys already have my pee from last week! Use the same pee!”

“Sorry, we can’t treat you unless you meet with the doctor again and give us a new sample.”

You’ve got to be kidding me, I thought. Why are we talking about pee during a shit storm? I weighed my options: either endure the UTI for who knows how long until this pandemic is over, which could lead to a kidney infection, which might eventually mean being forced to enter an overwhelmed, COVID-19-infected hospital anyway, or walk into this urgent care right now and possibly get exposed to the virus, but only from the two people coughing. I didn’t like this game of “Would you rather.”

Read: A New York doctor’s warning

I put on that mask and walked straight in––in my regular clothes, with no eye protection––where I stayed for a good 30 to 40 minutes until I could pee into a new cup, meet with the doctor, get a prescription, and go home. To say it was scary sitting there listening to all that coughing in the other rooms would be an understatement. The other patients sounded as if they should be on respirators, not in a neighborhood urgent care.

When I came home, I immediately stripped and washed all my clothes. That night, I got word that I did, indeed, have an ever-worsening UTI. (Duh.) A few hours later, Will came down with a fever and diarrhea and fell asleep watching Rachel Maddow, which he never does.

We isolated ourselves in separate rooms. My son stayed in his room, Will stayed in my other son’s room––that son, 24, had been volunteering for several months with Syrian refugees in Samos, Greece, and was self-quarantining in a nearby Airbnb––and me in the master bedroom, but not before I wiped down the entire apartment with Clorox wipes again. The next night, March 20, I cooked some rice and beans that no one ate.

Will stayed quite sick for three days, his temperature spiking and then retreating, but he never came down with a cough. Just the diarrhea, which is a rare COVID-19 symptom. We considered heading over to the drive-through test site that had just been set up on Staten Island, but by the time Will was feeling well enough to sit in a car for several hours, New York City had been declared a FEMA disaster zone. All masks and pieces of personal protective equipment were needed to treat the sick and dying, and the city put out a statement saying that people whose illnesses didn’t require hospitalization should not get tested. So we stayed home.

We missed each other’s company, though, so I threw caution to the wind, washed my hands, and invited Will to wash his hands and lie on the bed with me, as far from my body as possible, to listen to a recording of the 1977 Cornell Grateful Dead show while watching the sunset from our bedroom window. I kept it together until Jerry, in “Morning Dew,” sang, “Where have all the people gone, my honey? Where have all the people gone today?”