When I heard the recording of President Donald Trump admitting to Bob Woodward that he wanted to downplay the threat of the coronavirus, which he knew was far deadlier than the flu, I was waiting to hear an update on my husband, who was hospitalized with COVID-19.

Woodward’s forthcoming book is aptly named “Rage.”

Indeed, for the first time in the nine days since my husband had been gravely sick with this virus, I felt something other than overwhelming anxiety and fear. I felt rage from the core of my being.

It was the vaunted investigative team of Woodward and Carl Bernstein whose coverage of the Watergate scandal helped bring down President Richard Nixon. This same journalistic legend sat on tapes of Trump saying in February, “This is deadly stuff,” while later telling the American public it was a Democratic hoax no worse than the flu.

The pandemic has now killed more than 190,000 Americans.

Many have argued that the earlier release of tapes would not have changed this administration’s or its enablers’ response, and I tend to agree with that. But it might have convinced even one Fox News viewer to take this deadly virus more seriously. When Woodward heard the president telling the public a story entirely different than what he had said to him, while death and disease ravaged through the country, he faced an ethical decision.

He chose his book over the public’s right to know during a severe public health crisis.

If I had to pick a person least likely to get COVID-19 based strictly on their behavior, I would say my husband.

Since the pandemic began, he has not eaten inside a restaurant, been in a crowd or entered a single store without a mask. The only trip he’s taken was a weekend of camping. He works in hospital administration, so he has gone to work each day as an essential worker. Even when he’s working alone in his office, he wears the medical-grade N-95 given to hospital staff. He’s worn that mask at least eight hours a day, every weekday, for six months.

On the eighth day of his illness, which has been a hundred times worse than any flu and made him sicker than I’ve ever seen in 20 years of marriage, I drove my formerly healthy husband to the emergency room.

He received steroids, an experimental antiviral drug and convalescent plasma in a COVID isolation ward.

We discussed the Woodward tapes via text, because no one was allowed to be near him while he fought his health battle.

There’s no way for us to know exactly where he got the virus. He works in a heavily Republican county that never issued a mask order. We live in a red state run by a governor who followed the Trump approach to handling the pandemic: Gov. Mike Parson left it up to local counties to handle -- or mishandle -- their response, much like Trump left governors scrambling. Missouri has been among the top states with new confirmed cases per 1,000 residents, according to Johns Hopkins data at the time he got sick.

But while I didn’t have any expectation that Trump or the leaders who support him would behave any differently than they have, I would have expected something better from a member of my own tribe of journalists. With someone I love fighting for his life, the news of those tapes hit like an intense betrayal.

I’m focused on my husband’s recovery and grateful for the medical team taking care of him. He is showing hopeful signs of improvement, and recently came home from the hospital with oxygen. The doctors told us to expect a lengthy recovery.

Our country has collectively lost so much during the long months of this pandemic. People have lost their lives, loved ones, livelihoods, education and sense of security.

Now, I’ve also lost any shred of respect I had for Bob Woodward.

When my daughter was in third grade, she Googled “hypoallergenic dog” after years of hearing me tell her that our severe allergies prevented us from fulfilling her wish for a puppy.

She created a presentation on a rare breed, the Coton de Tulear, highlighting a list of reasons why this no-shed pup was the perfect dog for our family. I found images of this fluffy white dog with dark, expressive eyes whenever I opened my computer.

At the time, I used the classic parenting delay tactic -- “we’ll see” -- instead of an outright rejection. I knew that with two young children and a career, I did not want to take on the responsibility of another living being. My husband had zero interest in acquiring a pet. Neither of us grew up with dogs. We both come from traditional Muslim families who believed dogs should be kept outside the home for reasons related to ritual purity when praying.

Fast-forward seven years: The kids are both teenagers, my daughter’s desire for a dog hasn’t abated, and I’m starting to feel a little anxious about how quickly the years of child-rearing are passing. I’m more susceptible to an adorable creature that needs nurturing.

I struck a deal with my spouse that the dog would stay out of certain areas of the house, and we got on a waiting list with a reputable breeder.

When picked up our 10-week-old Frankie (short for Franklin D. Woofevelt), my maternal instincts kicked into overdrive.

For the first few nights, I moved an air mattress into the kitchen near Frankie’s crate and slept in front of him, so he wouldn’t cry at night. I reverted to familiar concerns from when our kids were babies: I worried he wasn’t eating enough, though the vet assured me he was growing just fine. I wondered if he would ever get potty-trained. I wasn’t sure how long his separation anxiety phase would last, or when he would outgrow his teenage rebellion. Sometimes he reminds me of the kids as toddlers: When I use the restroom, he sits right outside the door, anxiously awaiting my return. I entice him to eat his grain-free kibble by adding bits of apples or green beans. The first time I left him with a pet sitter overnight, I typed up a page of instructions.

I could tell I was becoming one of “those” dog people. I was reminded of an essay a reader sent me in 2017, in which the writer warned apocalyptically that pets were replacing children in America. Several such screeds point to the rising rate of dog ownership among millennials, the increasing amount pet owners spend on their animals and the delayed birth rate among this cohort. The reader who sent me the link seemed angry -- at her kids and the culture that has encouraged pet worship -- but she also seemed sad. Would she have to settle for grandpups instead of grandbabies?

Once I scoffed at people who described their pets as “furbabies,” and now I monitor the livestream feed of Frankie’s doggy daycare on my phone. I had to stop myself from calling the center when I witnessed a large goldendoodle bullying my baby -- er, dog.

It’s easy to mock the more ridiculous aspects of pet culture. But had I known the unconditional, enthusiastic love a dog offers, I would never have waited this long. Frankie is way more excited to see me than my kids have been -- outwardly, at least -- in years. And while raising a dog is surprisingly expensive, they never go to college.

I’ve been surprised by my intense bond with this furry creature. Even my daughter said recently that she hadn’t expected me to fall so hard for Frankie. I’m trying to be as objective as possible here: He is legitimately the cutest, sweetest, most lovable dog I’ve ever seen. If I had gotten a puppy 20 years ago, I can easily see how I might have put off having babies for a while.

I guess we found each other at the perfect time.

Frankie turns 1 this weekend.

You’ll have to excuse me; I have a cake to order.

There are certain Pakistani foods I only eat when I visit my parents in Texas.

That’s mostly because I don’t have the patience or skill to cook like my mom. She’s among those who have a gift of creating meals without a recipe that turn out masterfully. Food is her love language. I grew up with meals and desserts that took considerable time and effort to prepare.

She also taught me from a young age how to handle a hot pan, saute onions, prep meat and vegetables and season with a multitude of spices. It gave me a foundation for how to feed myself, and later, my family and friends. This is a skill I had largely ignored passing down to my own children. They are busier with school and activities than I was at their age. We eat more convenience foods since both my husband and I work. Rushed meals were a hallmark of pre-pandemic life.

The pandemic-induced slowdown in all our lives presented an opportunity to correct this oversight. I wanted my children, now teenagers, to learn kitchen skills beyond ramen, boxes of macaroni and brownie mix. Like so many other parents, I was sick of eating my own cooking and tired of thinking about what to make for dinner. And I was curious to see what they would come up with when tasked with this responsibility.

Lo and behold, they rose to the occasion. My son made beef short ribs in the slow cooker. He pulled off a perfect lasagna. He grilled burgers, made tacos and chicken wings. Even his humble grilled cheese sandwiches got an upgrade with French bread and four different types of cheese. 

Unsurprisingly, he gravitated toward making the foods a teenage boy would want to eat.

My daughter also stayed in her comfort zone. She started making cookies and cobblers from scratch instead of a mix, experimented with more shakes and smoothies and leveled up the snack food options in the house. She also made kabobs and a brisket.

Part of me was delighted with each new thing they turned out of the kitchen. But I also couldn’t help but notice how different their meal selections were from the curries and rice I had first learned to make.

Food is a big part of Pakistani culture, and I wanted to share this part of our heritage with them.

I pulled out a book in which I had written some of my mom’s recipes. Most don’t include specifics -- like measurements or times. She cooks from instinct and years of muscle memory. I had coaxed lists of ingredients from her and vague directions aided by years of watching her. But it had been a while since I attempted one of these dishes. I asked my son if he wanted to learn to make shaljum gosht -- a Kashmiri curry with turnips and goat meat that cooks for hours.

It’s one of my mom’s specialties.

He was game, so we got to work -- peeling large purple turnips, mincing ginger and garlic and cleaning bits of fat off the meat. I guesstimated the spices and instructed him on how to vigorously stir the pot while the meat browned. The smell of the simmering stew made me homesick in a way that was hard to put into words.

Because of the pandemic, we haven’t visited my parents since December. This is the longest I’ve gone in my life without seeing them. I’m hardly alone in this forced distancing.

I texted my family photos as my son stood in front of the bubbling pot on the stove. Everyone texted their encouragement.

My mom responded to him, “So proud of you. Can’t wait to come to St. Louis, so you and your sister can cook for me. That will be my real vacation.”

We can’t wait for that day, either, Mom.

I took a bite of the dish my son and I had made together.

It tasted like home.