It was only supposed to be one round trip.

For the past 18 years, since she arrived to take her place on Earth, I have traveled back east to celebrate the Princess of Boston’s birthday. In truth, there were a few surgeries that prevented my sharing her cake, but I know she understood. Being at family occasions is where so many of our memories reside.

“But, Gogo, could you come a bit early?” This year, there was indeed a second special occasion. And proud, puff-chested grandparents respond to all invitations when possible. Rory was named captain of her High School Quiz Show team. The academic trivia competition is recorded at WGBH, the big public television center in Boston. Miss it? Not on your life.

The first leg to Boston began in my driveway when I slammed the tailgate shut at 2:05 P.M. – an on-time departure for 4:30 arrival at Buffalo airport. Due north, about 45 minutes later, a quick slip into the side door at my new favorite stop – Tim Horton’s in Cassadaga. I coffeed and apple-frittered the remaining 56-mile jaunt up the thruway to the airport parking lot. The parking shuttle bus deposited me at Jetblue, and then just a short walk to Gate 8. Easy peasy. Years of practice.

The next few days, exciting doors kept opening at the television station, an evening at Symphony Hall, and finally a birthday dinner at a trendy Japanese/Peruvian fusion restaurant. Our newly-crowned adult had done her homework and found a dramatically-themed seafood and sushi dining experience. When did this kid close her bedroom door decorated with stickers and open one on boutique dining? Jeesh – that happened in a quick blur. Eighteen years flashed before my eyes while I happily sipped on a saki/rum specialty.

But that Sunday night shut down the birthday girl’s celebratory weekend. She woke to test positive for Covid. Monday night, draped in a blanket, she opened her presents sitting in the middle of the den floor. All the windows were open to the 20-degree evening while we, the masked family, huddled around the walls. Then back to bed. No hugs, kisses, or I-love-yous.

My daughter tested positive the next morning. A few quick days of happy togetherness. Done. Rats.

Trying to protect me from another Covid infection, the girls remained upstairs. I blew kisses to express thanks and love, then goodbye waves as I slipped into the Uber they hired to take me to the airport.

After JetBlue backed off the gate at Logan, I realized I was one of only two or three passengers with a mask. It seemed that everyone had decided that Covid is over. I wondered.

My return drive from Buffalo was without incident, but I felt sluggish. Back home, I just wanted sleep. I tested positive the next day – Wednesday afternoon. Oh no-o-o-o.

I had been warned to take all precautions. Already dealing with Long Covid, I had previously added Oxygen to my life. The last thing I wanted or needed was a replay of December 2020.

I had heard the new strain was lighter – feel crummy for a few days – then back to normal. So, I waited the few days. Liars. I got worse.

By Sunday, my fever was well over 100. The Monday morning phone call to the doc’s office was firm – go directly to the Emergency Room. I hadn’t planned this trip, walking through those doors again. And it felt just like the first time two years ago – unknown, scary, and again, what’s next? HOW can this be happening again?

After the results of the chest X-ray, things happened rapidly in E.R.room #3: immediate I.V.s, Remdesivir, Steroids, Vitamin C, bloodwork, EKG, same old, same old. And admission.

I spent the five days with nurses, respiratory therapists, aids, phlebotomists, and the daily hospitalist doctor visit. I wrote last week’s column from my hospital bed, and had only 31 interruptions! It took all day, and I just tried to stay on subject.

They sprung me late Friday, and I am home. I am waiting for the new protocols, the new rules, the new equipment. Home health care and the oxygen people would be happy if I stay at home, behind closed doors. I have decided otherwise.

As we age, it is easy to slip into the limiting mindset of what life is now, and what it will be in the time we have left. We go less, we do less, we plan for less. Fuggedaboudit.

This disease has hacked me off. It may eventually do me in, but not without a fight. I’m not going to live behind closed doors. We’ll figure out what it takes, and keep the door open to the next leg of the journey.

There is still life out there to relish, and celebrations to share with the people I love. Miss it? Not on your life.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com