In Which the Narrator Simply Does Not Know
The other day, I woke up, pulled on a dress, and stumbled to the doctor’s. I had a pre-existing appointment, and wanted to go in to ask about my iron levels, which sounds more like I have my life put together than I actually do. The walk there was hot and sweaty. When I arrived, there were two queues: for those who felt more or less well, and for those who either had a fever, traveled abroad in the last 14 days, or came into contact with someone who’d gotten COVID-19. I joined the first queue and was given a little green sticker. Are you sure you’re feeling okay? The nurse asked. But it seemed like she asked this of everyone, so I just nodded at the gatekeeping, and went on my way.
I generally don’t like waiting. I don’t like unspecified periods of time wherein anything can happen; I don’t like limbo, and I don’t like amorphous anticipation. At the polyclinic, you get a little paper printout with a queue number on it, followed by a clarification that numbers may not be called in order. What’s the point, then? Why not just have the doctors come out and scream any name that piques their fancy?
The waiting room at the polyclinic always puts me in a bad mood. There are always overacted skits being screened on the big television, broadcasting warnings about your gut health. It’s always simultaneously freezing and humid. Every two minutes, an artificial chime calls attention to the fact that the queue numbers have leapfrogged in un-chronological ways yet again. As I sat there, sinking further and further into my bad mood, shivering and sweating, drawing alarmed looks from the other patients around me, it occurred to me that I was very sick. I stood up shakily and went to the nurse. Hello, I said, pointing to my green sticker. Then I just shook my head.
It was quickly ascertained that I had a high fever. The minute this was pronounced, I felt immediately worse, as if the verbal confirmation had pulled all my symptoms into sharp clarity. I was given a new surgical mask to change into, then brought to a different part of the clinic, a repurposed gymnasium, where makeshift medical tents and white plastic chairs gave the place an entirely depressing air. It was too bright. I put my head in my lap, and started mentally contact-tracing all the people I’d met the last couple of days. I pulled my phone out and texted my family to please not go into my room. I re-read the message; it seemed maniacal and secretive. I contextualized: Am sick. Just in case! Then I added a smiley face. The doctor came out and screamed a mangled version of my name. I followed him into the tent.
Everything was wrong with me. My head was burning up, my body was pulsing with hurt, my ears were ringing, I felt cold. How’s your sleep? he wanted to know.
No good, I said. Unpredictable.
When did you start feeling off?
I replied without thinking: I always feel off. Then I burst into tears.
He’d probably seen too much of my kind, he didn’t even blink. I’ll give you a three days MC, he said. Go get swabbed.
In Singapore, it’s illegal to leave your house till your COVID test results return a negative. I canceled all my plans, went home, and threw up a bunch, then shuddered through a shower, soaping off whatever germs I might have brought back that didn’t originate from within me. I rubbed Vicks on the soles of my feet, then ensconced them in thick socks to trap the heat in my body, forcing it to find other ways out of my system. Even lying flat, I could feel the sweat rolling off my thighs and soaking into the mattress. I dreamed, lucidly. I woke to several missed calls from a private number, which is apparently how the Ministry of Health informs you that you have the virus. I panicked, but before the panic could come to fruition, fell back asleep. When I woke again, the American vice-presidential debates were over and everyone was talking about a fly. Either before or after that, I signed in to a Zoom class and typed in the chat-box: camera off because i am very sick. The class was on dialogue. What’s wrong? a friend asked, in a private chat to me. I hate that I don’t know, I replied. How’s that for dialogue? I looked at my phone and there was another missed call. How was I missing all these calls? I was literally right here. I started feeling as if I were in the doctor’s waiting room again, except this time, all the queue numbers called for me.
Later, I got a text from an unknown number informing me of my COVID-negative status. Still feverish, I dialed the Ministry of Health’s hotline to ascertain that it was legitimate. There had been a reported rise in COVID-related text and call scams of late. The woman on the phone assured me that it was real. Don’t worry, she kept saying, you don’t have COVID. You’re just normal sick, probably.
Who’re all these unknown missed calls from, then?
What? What are you talking about?
I started to explain, then thought the better of it. Nevermind, I said, thanks. The back of my knees were wet. I still didn’t know about my iron levels, or anything else. I hung up, lay back on the bed, and waited for the phone to ring.
