Covid finally arrived like a thief in the night. I was already swirling in its haze last Thursday morning as I was writing my column. I’d spent the night in a state of restlessness. I was sure I was coming down with something, but I felt sure it was possibly seasonal. Our child had had a fever that had lasted a day and a half, recovering so quickly, regaining strength and mood with such ease, we couldn’t fathom he’d in fact fought COVID. I couldn’t sleep a wink the night before. I had a headache, a backache, a throat ache—every part of my body felt besieged by something. It was a choppy night and I barely made it through. Painkillers felt meaningless and by noon I wasn’t surprised when I tested positive. My first thought was that the timing couldn’t have been better. Of course, there is no such thing as a good moment to be ill. But we had been protecting ourselves from the virus with such tenacity from the beginning, intensifying efforts during my pregnancy and immediately postpartum. Now, between the Granny Smith and the Pink Lady harvest, we could afford to be incapacitated.

As I wrestled with every symptom associated with COVID (my sense of taste remained more or less intact), I continued to work, because I had some immovable deadlines. It was intellectual work, not easy to perform when one is coughing one’s guts out. Having to stretch my body, coaxing it to be able to think through illness, forced a reflection on the notion of professionalism. It’s a subject I’ve a lot to say about since I have been a ‘self-employed professional’ since 2010. As a feminist, I have frequently thought about how the contours of what it constitutes have been doggedly framed by patriarchy. We are expected to follow unspoken rules, and we usually do so without ever questioning their parameters.