[Surviving 47 days in a Korean COVID-19 Hospital] Part 2: Room 414
Thursday 11:00AM, April 2nd, 2020
The sound of footsteps and rolling wheels slowly reached my ears as I walked into Terminal 4 at John F. Kennedy Airport. A big chamber that was always filled with loud departure announcements and parents yelling at their children to calm down stood silent and empty. I stopped walking to observe the eerie airport, realizing I had never seen it so hollow. The TSA line that used to feel like a long & dark tunnel became a clear highway with no one standing in front of me. The Duty Free stores that used to seduce customers looking for a nice bottle of whiskey were covered in darkness, barring travelers from entry.
When I reached my gate, rows of seats that would normally be filled with Korean students excited to go back home for vacation were sparsely occupied, with the few people present keeping their distance from each other. The flight was not even filled to a quarter of its capacity, so rows of seats were reserved only for pillows and headsets, waiting for passengers that were nowhere near the flight. Sitting through 14 hours of flying, I tried to distract myself from the unavoidable chaos that would face me once I landed in Korea. The long hours passed as I caught up with films I’d heard about in the news until the windows were lifted to shine bright rays of lights into the aircraft. I had landed in Korea.
At last, I was able to make a small smile behind my mask as I settled my heart into a feeling of relief. Regardless of how events would turn out, I had finally come closer to my family, away from the growing anxiety I felt in New York as COVID-19 cases skyrocketed. Except for the masks on people’s faces, everything seemed normal as I walked through the moving-walk lanes of Incheon airport. I soon approached a health-checking booth, which usually doesn’t stop anyone passing through. The only time I had seen someone get stopped was when I traveled to Korea after visiting Uganda. An employee had stopped me to ask questions about Ebola.
Friday 4:50PM, April 3rd, 2020
This time, greeting passengers from New York, health officers with personal protective equipment (PPE) screened everyone and asked travelers to submit a health form listing potential symptoms of COVID-19. Noting that I wrote down sore throat and cough as symptoms, the airport staff guided me to a separate health check-in section where another set of employees sat and asked people questions. I calmly explained that I had minor symptoms and lost my sense of smell about 2 weeks before coming to Korea but wasn’t able to get tested in New York. I was then guided to another booth where I had a conversation with a doctor who determined that I should get tested for COVID-19 as soon as possible. Even if I didn’t have any symptoms, I would’ve been tested for the virus at a separate location outside of the airport. However, I, along with 15 other people from my flight, were put in individual booths and asked to wait patiently until our names were called.
Friday 5:12PM, April 3rd, 2020
I called my parents, who had been waiting at the airport, and tried to reassure them that everything would be okay. We were separated by at most 10 meters of distance, but the gate remained shut. When I ended my call, I could hear everyone in the booth calling their friends and loved ones, trying to calm them down, hiding away their fears about what was about to happen. Tired, jet lagged, hungry and scared, I started facing the reality: I might have COVID-19. Frustrations built up in my mind as I went through all of my actions that could have led to me contracting the virus. Could it have been the subway, the gym, the office, or a stranger walking past me on the streets? Question marks filled my already tired mind as the officials finally called my name and put me in a bus that transported people to a testing site.
Friday 8:48PM, April 3rd, 2020
Bright lights, green tents, healthcare workers covered from their toes to their head with PPE, and long painful swabs. What stood before my eyes resembled a horror movie set in a post-apocalyptic world. After my name was called for testing, I walked towards one of the diagnostics camps confidently and slid my mask down as a diagnostics officer brutally stabbed my nose and throat with swabs. Known as RT-PCR testing, it tests if a person’s body has any virus in their system. Although it was painful, I showed a quick smile having completed my task. Had I known that this would be the first of many weekly tests I would have to go through for a month and a half, I wouldn’t have been that proud.
For the final step of this testing process, they put people in a hotel near the airport until we received test results. When we entered the building, it seemed very well prepared. Health care workers along with soldiers deployed to help the pandemic control explained the terms of stay and told us that we should receive test results soon. I stayed awake through the night, only getting about an hour of sleep until the phone rang.
Saturday 1:30PM, April 3rd, 2020
“Mr Donggi Lee, you tested positive for the coronavirus. Please pack your belongings and get ready for a relocation.”
Just like that.
No anger, no disbelief, no feeling of stress. I sat on a twin sized mattress for a few seconds after I hung up as I slowly accepted my test result. After about half an hour, healthcare staff fully covered with PPE came to my door and escorted me to an ambulance. Covered in plastic, the inside of an ambulance seemed exactly like what I saw in Korean dramas, usually with couples telling each other “I love you” as one gets transported to the hospital and miraculously survives every disease/injury they have. I was alone. As I tried to sit on a thin patient bed, the health worker advised me to lie down to avoid getting car sick. I lay down for the next 45 minutes holding my luggage in one hand and the trembling patient bed on the other hand as I stared at splashes of light leaking into the vehicle. I closed my eyes to limit my discomfort and nausea but that only highlighted the loud banging sound of my luggage hitting the side of the car. While I tried in vain to guess my destination with the movement of the car as if I were in a spy movie, the car came to a stop. I had arrived at my home for the next seven weeks.
Known as a 생활치료센터, which roughly translates to “living treatment center” in English, the building stuck a good first impression on me. Nurses kindly informed me about rules in the center and wished me a swift recovery. All essential supplies would be provided, including shampoo, body wash, towels, cup ramen, instant coffee, Korean snacks, and yes, a thermometer. Dragging my luggage for the last time, I passed by rooms that were shut tight. I sensed no sign of life, only the occasional sound coming out of a television in one of the rooms. I walked through the hallway alone, just accompanied by security cameras that watched my last steps before heading into my room.
40 hours had passed since I left my home in Brooklyn.
Saturday 4PM, April 4th. I arrived at room 414.
