Five years ago today the WHO declared Covid-19 a global pandemic. I took one last look at my Seattle view of the Cascade mountains, threw together a suitcase packed randomly with quick panicky decision items like grandmother’s teacups and all the extra apartment toilet paper and went straight to the airport. In a matter of hours the schools had shut down, the grocery store was shuttered, the streets were still. The news predicted SeaTac would be closed within days. I needed to return to my family, my medical support and my home on the East coast for what I assumed were the few months we needed to ride out the outbreak. My neighbor hung an N95 mask on my front door for me to use on the flight which I thought at the time was sweet but overkill so I left it there. We all know the rest of the story.

Fittingly I received my eighth vaccine on the eve of this fifth anniversary and woke today feeling like a truck hit me then ran over my arm an extra time for good measure. I have always been first in line for the vaccinations and boosters: I had after all made a deal with my life three years earlier in 2017 that I would live it after two cancer surgeries, gallbladder failure and ten years of surveillance ahead of me. All of life has side effects. I have learned to accommodate them.

I take the shots, wear the mask on planes and stay current with the data. But to be completely transparent I still contracted Covid three times, each one worse than the other. All three times I have never been more ill.

This month I have been reading a lot of press on the ever-evolving research concerning the damage to my body from contracting the virus. Some had been obvious to me: I lost my sense of taste and smell, I am still easily fatigued and suffer recurrent attention issues. I have learned to compensate with memory and patience, texture and confidence. I remember the smell of a rose so well a feeling swells inside me when I bury my nose in the soft petals. I like crunchy food best, the athletic side of eating is satisfying. Slithery slippery tasteless pasta has been off the menu for a while. I miss salivating at the sight of a table laden with cake. Needless to say I cook less.

A few weeks ago I was blessed with a grandson. I allowed myself a minute of sadness the first time I held him; I cannot smell the sweet scent of his new skin. But then he slept on my chest and snored like a tiny dormouse and my heart was full to bursting. Memory and patience. The body remembers.

I slowed down today and took some Advil. In two weeks I fly to a writing conference along with thousands of other people. So I erred on the side of caution and got the shot with plenty of time for it to become effective. It hurt. It still hurts. But a deal is a deal: living the best life now, while I can.