Had quite the scare over the past 24 hours. Got a call from my mother last night. "Hey. So remember how I took the #coronavirus test just before your brother had the baby? Just got an email from the doctor. I tested positive. I've got it."

My sphincter tightened right up, as my moms is 80 years old and lives alone in a NYC suburb. "Are you feeling sick?" She wasn't. At all. She's also been quarantining like a champ; hasn't really left the house for the past month except for a biweekly grocery run.

But her last public outing before the quarantine was to church. And her pastor was hospitalized with COVID-19. (He's since recovered.)

Last night, we told her that if she's asymptomatic, then maybe she's just a carrier. And that she should talk to the doctor first thing this morning, which she did. Doc said that she had it, but her immune system likely fought it off.

And that since she's been quarantining anyway, her time of being contagious—which they're counting from the date of the test, since she doesn't know when she was infected—has passed without incident.

This is as close as I want to come. And I desperately feel for people who've had loved ones who caught it for real. Because those 24 hours were some of the most panicked of my entire life. I'm 3000 miles away, not that I could've done much if I was next door.

But for all you sad motherfuckers who are protesting the stay-at-home orders because you've had enough and are Americans and can do what you want? Sit down and shut up. If my octogenarian mother can do it, so can you.