When I couldn’t smell the besamim, I curled up in my bed and waited for death to come

I’m not big on celebrating birthdays. My kids are. So when they start requesting birthday parties, I indulge them with a cupcake fest, with plenty of frosting. They lick the frosting and leave the cupcakes on the table.

First birthdays, though, usually pass quietly. The babies are too young to ask for cupcakes, and I’m too busy repacking the pantry they unpacked and scooping nonedibles out of their mouths.

Last week we celebrated my son’s first birthday. I made special dessert for Shabbos and wiped tears every time I looked at him. His birthday marked a year from the eruption of COVID.

He was a tiny five pounder, slightly premature, and spent his first week in the NICU (without a mask to be found!). In the kimpeturin heim, we griped about the stuff that wasn’t arriving from AliExpress; how would we make Pesach without the goodies from China? We also spoke about Purim plans and Pesach plans with a newborn. Yeah, people still had plans back then.

Then, I went home. And only one week later, when my baby was three weeks old, schools closed. One minute COVID was about AliExpress and the next it was about war. My sister was one of the first to test positive, and she came to my house in a mask. My toddler shrieked so loudly from fear, it took us a long time to calm her down.

When I couldn’t smell the besamim, I curled up in my bed and waited for death to come. I kept on breathing to check if I could breathe, and eating to see if I could swallow. Both were getting harder and harder to do.