Covid-19-Coronavirus-News-Articles

It's 2 a.m. on a chilly mid-March morning and I am tossing and turning on the sofa in the living room of my small Harlem apartment in New York, hoping I'm not disturbing Greg, my husband, peacefully sleeping in our adjacent bedroom. Unbearable aches accompany my fever, which just jumped from low grade to 102° and persistent chills now violently shake my body. The past three days I've been lethargic and a little achy but I chalked those complaints up to jet lag. I had just returned from a two-week Scandinavia trip for work. Tonight, with the arrival of these new dreadful symptoms, I'm suddenly fearing the worst: thoughts of the coronavirus flood my mind.

As a writer, I travel the globe for a living, logging thousands of miles per year. It may sound glamorous, and it can be, but it's also a lot of trains, planes, automobiles, new people, foreign customs, crowds and interviewing sources close up for stories. It hadn't seemed like a risky business until now — the numbers of dead and dying climbing. It's a sleepless night consumed with worry.