I got an email on Thursday that I had been exposed without the proper PPE. “You qualify for testing,” the email read. “Please schedule your appointment today.”
48 minutes later I took my first steps toward one of two bare-boned tents set up on opposite sides of a large empty parking lot in West Philly. Two women in masks with clipboards checked off my name and then directed me to the opposite tent to be tested.
I cut across the large lot to the second tent and was told to wait. The waiting room consisted of an imaginary box outlined with hot pink tape on the concrete with a single, large folding chair in the center.
In my folding chair I watched cars cycling through the tent. Drivers rolled down their windows and leaned back their heads. A gowned attendant, often a resident - such as myself - with goggles, a mask and gloves, stuck a cotton swab as far back as possible for 10 seconds, placed it into a vial of reagent, then labeled and secured it in a ziplock bag. The car and driver were sent on their way.
It was my turn.
One of the masked workers greeted me with a long cotton swab. She told me to lean my head back and warned that it would be “quite uncomfortable.” I have swabbed many patients for respiratory viruses at work thus far and remember the look of discomfort on their faces following.
I closed my eyes and within seconds they started to water as I felt a painful sensation in an area I didn’t even know I could feel. The swab was deep in my nose for what felt like an eternity, but in reality was a mere 10 seconds. A metallic taste lingered. I scrunched my nose, tried to swallow. I complained out loud, “that was awful.” I caught myself. “I’m sorry.” I knew that would be me swabbing in a few short days.
I walked away from the tent, away from the parking lot. The fear and the meaning of the result lingered more than the physical discomfort in my nose. A result would appear in 24-48 hours.
