The views expressed in this piece reflect the author and are not representative of The Bronx Magazine. For more information on COVID-19, please visit the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention at https://www.cdc.gov/

The morning fog was thick and heavy. I knew that this morning’s drive to the girls’ school could be a bit difficult. But that was the least of my concern, as it was the third day after my vaccine injection. I rotated my arm to relieve some of the soreness and stiffness, but it seemed futile. It still hurt, but I had to overcome that. I had to take my daughters to school for in-person learning.

Last night was a tough one. I still had a headache and my little one woke up in the middle of the night. A child’s sleep pattern is highly unpredictable; sometimes they sleep as if they have four jobs, and other times, they toss and turn and want to invade their parents’ bed. Last night, my little one crept into our bedroom. I asked her if she was well and she said she was just a bit warm. I remember leading her to her bed in the dark, where she asked me a question.

Bunbun, she said.

Yes, cutie pie, I replied.

What’s 18 plus 7?

I couldn’t help but laugh and shake my head.

It’s 25 cutie, I said to her.

What’s 16 plus 8?

Okay, cutie. I love your math questions, but I need you to go to sleep.

Fine, bunbun, she said. Goodnight.

As I stood in front of the bay window, watching the fog subside, I smiled at the nickname my little one gave me. I filled a water bottle with water and my girls were ready for bed. We got into the car and drove to school. I hoped and prayed that I didn’t have any remaining side effects. I questioned every small feeling in my body and I wondered to myself if it was Covid related. What if I pass out? What if I get dizzy? I couldn’t worry about that right now. I had a job to do. And that’s all that matters.

While they enjoyed their playlists of Missy Elliot and Shakira, I couldn’t help but think about my fight with the Covid side effects. Two nights ago, I felt every bit of that vaccine and its side effects.

As I drove up the I95, I thought of those feelings of illness again. The day after the shot, my body temperature started to climb the mountain of Covid side effects. I inhaled deeply, hoping for the best. But I couldn’t sleep. At midnight, I felt chills at the bottom of my feet. I thought I had stepped into an ice bucket and the sensation had overwhelmed my entire body. I tried to get under my comforter, but the chills chased me at every toss and turn. Not one space in the bed was warm enough.

The muscles of my neck tightened and it felt extremely warm to the touch. I squinted my eyes in pain and tried to force myself to sleep. I tried and I tried, but I felt as if I was running from an avalanche of random thoughts and concern.

Was the group chat right?

Had all the political pundits and social media scientists been correct? Were the chills a sign of death, and I was returning to life, only to become part of the walking dead?

Was my head aching because the microchip was moving into my medulla as so many had theorized? Was I getting dizzy because my face about to shift permanently?

Did I sign my death wish?

I shut my eyes again and prayed that I would wake up with the morning sun.

During the longest night, they opened again, and again, and a few more times. My mind was racing faster than the doubts of Conservatives and my friends.

Please, God, help me.

I welcomed the morning sun and wrapped myself in the comforter. My wife did the best she could, but the only remedy was a couple of aspirins and sleep.

I survived the worst of it, I quietly said to myself as I approached my girls’ schools. I parked curbside and wished them well for their days of school. I told them I loved them, and they smiled and walked into their school building.

Exiting the school campus, I lowered the window as the sun started to peek through the clouds. I took a long deep breath and reminded myself of the quality of nature’s gift of air. I loved it.  I swiped through my phone and found a playlist highlighting the best of DMX, who just had suddenly passed away. I turned up the volume and as I stopped at a red light, a woman walking her dog looked puzzled at the sound of the loud music. A red-haired gentleman then walked past her and he turned and faced me. He smiled and formed an X with his arms. I nodded and pointed at him.

Five minutes later, I was approaching the entrance to the I95 to get back home. As the music faded, a siren interrupted the quiet morning. I pulled over to the curb and removed my wallet from my pocket. I placed my paperwork on the dashboard and waited until the police officer approached my car. I sat calmly, hands on the steering wheel. I grew up during New York City’s Stop & Frisk, so shamefully, I was accustomed to being pulled over or searched for no consequential reason. Quietly, I prayed to myself for a decent, human interaction. He had a job to do and after years of being accosted and questioned by law enforcement, I was resigned to their microaggression and bias.

Just let them do what they gotta do, I thought to myself.

I looked into the rearview mirror and the officer exited his vehicle and walked in my direction.  I survived Covid’s side effects and the streets of Mott Haven.

I had a job to do too, though. And that was to make it home safely.

For my family. For myself.

Just stay calm, keep still, and be confident as a tax-paying citizen.

I need to make it home…

There was a tap at my driver’s side window…

I need to make it home…