I lean more right than left, but I also spent five weeks last spring at my father’s house in Massachusetts, after he caught the coronavirus at his cardiac rehab facility. When he came home, still covid-19 positive, I literally cowered in a bedroom with all of its windows open to the 35-degree New England “spring.”

I guess I’m supposed to be embarrassed that I isolated myself rather than frolicking through the potentially virus-laden air of the common areas, the way a real righty would have — sans peur et sans masque.

Of course, I did venture out to help my dad, who had just spent a month locked in his room by a nursing home that was — get this — afraid of letting the virus spread among its vulnerable patients. While he recovered his strength, my sister and I ran errands and did housework, protected by masks and nigh-obsessive hand-washing. The rest of the time, we stayed in our rooms while my dad occupied the main part of the house.

I would have gravely disappointed our president because I felt a deep, sick fear every time I wondered whether I had caught the virus. I was afraid for me, with my history of lung problems and hypertension. I was afraid for my sister, because who knew what this disease might do to her. And I was also afraid for my dad, because if we caught it, he’d end up with two patients instead of two helpers.