Issuu

Isolation (San Juan De Dios Hospital, Metro Manila, Philippines) “The ambulance will be there soon to pick you up,” my local company’s HR representative said over phone. “So you need to pack your belongings and get ready.” “Okay,” I said compliantly in a hushed tone. Suddenly the reality of everything was coming to me. “You okay?” he asked. I snapped out of my funk. “Yeah, I feel fantastic. Funny today has been my best day and now it’s become my worst.” “Don’t worry. Everything will work out.” Just then someone rang the doorbell to my room. “I think they are here.” I said. “I will talk to you later, okay? And remember, don’t worry,” the HR representative said. I hung up without goodbye. I grabbed my mobile on the table and went to the door. And just like that – there were two people in hazmat uniforms like the ones that had boarded my flight in Shanghai when we landed. But this time – they spoke in Tagalog and with a thick Filipino accent as they spoke English. Their hands were busy with medical instruments and documents to fill out. “Mister Jackson?” the woman in the hazmat uniform asked. “Yes?” “We are here to take you to isolation.”

The move out of the hotel to the hospital was like a secret service detail. The hotel security guys came to my room – standing menacingly outside my door with their hands holding walkie talkies – and sporting surgical masks. “Mister Jackson, we need you to take the stairs,” Mel, the lead security guy said.

The ambulance woman had me signing paperwork but never explained what it was for. Also what I thought was strange – she didn’t offer me her pen to sign. She asked me repeatedly, “Do you have your own pen?” “Yes,” I finally answered and dug one out of my computer bag. I found it and used it to sign my name on multiple locations. And forgetting – after I signed the paper – I laid the pen down across the paper. “I am sorry Mister Jackson, you need to take your pen.” She said rather forcefully. “Okay.” And I took the pen and shoved it down in my bag. She seemed to let out a big breath when I had taken it – as if I had just risked her life by signing a legal document with a now contagious pen. When actually the risk was mine – I had probably signed documents giving them custody of my first born children or that if they chop me up by accident – they are not responsible. “Mister Jackson, we need you to follow us now,” said the security manager, Mel. I went out and we made a convoy. The woman ambulance person first, me, the security manager, Mel, the male ambulance person, and then the second security person. And we went together quickly down six flights of stairs. And when approaching the Ground floor I started slowing down. The security manager, Mel, behind me – also carrying my luggage spoke up, “No, we are continuing to the basement. We have a car in waiting.” “Okay.” And just like that we were out in the basement parking lot. There was a black luxury car backed up to us. “Wow, is this the ambulance?” I asked. The ambulance woman turned and said, “I am sorry, what did you say?” I reached up and pulled down my mask to speak, “I was saying that’s a swanky ambulance…” “Mister Jackson!” the woman ambulance person yelled. “Please NEVER pull your surgical mask down, is that clear?” I pulled it up quickly. “Sorry.” Two more security guys were waiting near the car – and they opened the back doors. They pointed for me to enter the car. I slid in – and the woman ambulance person got in on the left and the man ambulance person got on the right. I was sandwiched in the middle.

A security guy quickly climbed in the front and said something in his walkie-talkie. Then Mel, got in on the passenger side. He turned to the driver, “Let’s go, go, go.” And just like that – we were off. We drove fast out of the parking lot and then when we emerged on the street – people started staring. I didn’t blame them. They probably thought it was strange to see a black luxury car roaring out, two people in complete surgical uniforms, and me in the middle wearing a mask. They drove quickly to the front of the hotel on Makati Avenue where a proper ambulance was parked. Its lights were on. People were gathering around to watch the commotion. The luxury car we were in tried to park behind it – but they couldn’t maneuver – so then they drove and parked in front of the ambulance. Mel spoke into his walkie-talkie. Then the ambulance moved from behind us to the front of us – doing a sort of vehicle leap frog. The doors to the ambulance burst open. Mel then looked back at me, “Mister Jackson, I need you to quickly get inside the ambulance.” “Okay, sure.” Then like we were in some military mission, he started yelling, “Go, go, go!” And I went to the back of the ambulance and the driver helped me inside. The people standing around now looked alarmed and scared at the sight of us. Soon, both ambulance people were inside, Mel, entered a side door and sat in front of me – towing my baggage. The woman ambulance person pointed to the stretcher in the back. “Do you want to lie down?” I laughed. “No, I feel fine.” And just then the back doors to the ambulance slammed shut. And the siren came on – and we were roaring through 5 o’clock Friday evening Manila traffic.

Finally after waiting in the curtained off isolation corner of the ER for nearly an hour – filling out more paperwork – also having to use my own pen – because I was too dangerous to share with – an older Filipino man came to me – looking incredibly nervous. He nodded his head toward the wheelchair he had brought. “You want me to get in the wheel chair?” He spoke something in Tagalog.

“Sige,” I said not really understanding what he said but acting like I did. And I got up and moved to the wheelchair. Soon as I was settled, he shoved me forward. And I was wheeling through the actual Emergency Room. I saw a woman who was bleeding above her eye. She had her littler daughter crying and holding her hand. I was pushed out into a corridor and around a corner – where the older man parked me in front of an elevator. He pushed the button. On the elevator door was a paper sign taped to it reading, “Out of Service.” I swallowed hard and hoped he could read English or that the sign was not applicable. Finally, the elevator door opened and the man barreled inside. And then suddenly realizing he had forgotten me – he comes out, getting behind my wheelchair, and propels me forward so quickly that he gives me whiplash. He parks me in front of the back wall and does not turn me around. I sit there patiently while I hear the older man talking loudly almost argumentatively to a woman nurse who also entered the elevator. Finally, the elevator stops and I am extracted. They take me to two big steel doors – then the wheelchair driver shoulders them first while dragging me behind him. Then suddenly I am in my new home - the isolation wing. The woman who is in the elevator steps forward – and she is completely covered in a surgical uniform, gloves, and mask. She has a clipboard and she points to a door. “This is your room, Mister Jackson.” The man pushing the wheelchair just stops. And when I stand – he is gone. I walk to the door and the nurse opens the door for me. And when inside its four white walls, a horizontal window painted over with white paint, and Jesus on a crucifix above the bathroom door is all there is to greet me. This is my isolation.

The next day, I used my laptop to write. And I wrote for several hours with my iPod Shuffle blasting in my ear. And finally, after drinking a whole plastic bottle of Green Tea given to me by the night nurse, I had to go to the bathroom. I left my iPod Shuffle on and peed. Just as Destiny’s Child, “Bug-a-boo” came on. And I couldn’t help myself. I felt great. I was hidden in the bathroom – so I looked in the mirror and danced.

Danced my ass off. I did some new popping moves I had seen on MTV and Channel V. And when I left the bathroom I was sweating and panting. I returned to the bed just as there was a knock on the door. And my nurse with her hazmat uniform came in – holding a blood pressure kit. “Hello Mister Jackson.” “Hi,” I said quickly. “You don’t look sick at all,” she said. “I don’t feel sick at all.” I responded back with a smile. She reached over onto the counter and grabbed the digital thermometer. She started removing it from its case. That’s when I noticed that I was sweaty. Sweaty from dancing in the bathroom and I could feel my heart elevated. “Shit,” I thought to myself. “What if they take my blood pressure and temperature and notice its high – and think the flu has returned?” “Here Mister Jackson,” the nurse in the pastel blue and soft white surgical uniform said and handed me the thermometer. “Put this under your arm this time.” I laughed. “Yes. I will.” And as she was pushing the thermometer towards my arm – I stopped her and I pushed it under the wet folds of my white Hanes t-shirt where my armpit was. She then started taking my blood pressure and hearing my pulse – I felt the bag puff up – tighter, tighter and the Velcro unfastened a little. The nurse grabbed the strap just in time and held it. I watched the pointer go up higher and higher – and finally the arrow started shaking at 120 and then it came down shaking around 80. “120 over 80.” “That good?” “Completely. You are normal.” And then the digital thermometer beeped. She extracted it. “36.5.” “That’s also good?” “Yes, no fever.” “Yeah, I feel great.”

The nurse started gathering her instruments together. “Is there anything I can do for you?” I swallowed hard. “Yes, is there anyway you can get me Starbucks?” I saw her eyes go wide. “Starbucks?” “Yeah, I am dying for Starbucks coffee. Is there one close?” She nodded. “There is one outside.” “Across the street?” She shook her head. “No, just a couple of meters from the front door.” “Is there anybody that you can send someone to get me some coffee? I will pay you and them for it.” I sat up straight in my hospital bed. “You don’t like the hospital coffee?” I grimaced. “No.” She looked me up and down. “Why do you need Starbucks?” “I need it to write.” “Write? Write what?” “I write short stories. And I need Starbucks for my fuel.” She was quiet and then asked again, “What kind of short stories?” “I write about what happens with me sometimes. And I have other stories I write for teleplays and screenplays.” “Stories?” she asked unbelievingly. “Well, sadly, I go off shift in less than an hour. And I don’t think I can do that.” “No, you can! You can! That’s perfect! Could you go across the street and get me a Venti Café Mocha? If you do, I will even write about you in my story.” She laughed. “Starbucks is not across the street. Its just outside,” then she paused. “Write me into a story? Which one?” “How about into my blog?”

She looked at me serious. “I can’t promise anything. But I will try.” And with that I could see in her eyes – even with her surgical mask – she was smiling. She turned to go. “What is your name so I can write about you?” She laughed. “My name is Linda.” “Okay, consider it done. You have been written about.” Linda laughed as she left. Later that night, when she finally returned, I saw that beautiful woman in stripes and long hair imprinted on the plastic cup, and I quickly pulled money out of my suitcase and paid her a hefty tip for her effort. She smiled and left. I took two hours to drink it – savoring every drop. On the outside, maybe it would have tasted okay. But in isolation, it was the greatest Starbucks coffee ever.