I made it two years without getting covid. It wasn’t until I was in Thailand, 8,000 miles away from my home in Michigan, that the virus finally got a hold of me.

I had already spent a week in quarantine upon arriving in the country. At the time of my trip, a strict quarantine was required for everyone entering the country―regardless of a negative test result. I had tested negative before leaving the U.S. and again on my day of arrival, so I never expected that I could still test positive at the end of one week. After the longest week ever―the four walls of my hotel room were starting to close in on me. I had one day left before I could start my Southeast Asan journey. As I was planning for my first day of freedom; I received a call from the hotel nurse, “Your covid test was positive”. In classic dramatic fashion, as her words registered in my ears, I fell to my knees and began to sob. Through my blubbering, I tried to listen as the nurse explained the next steps. I was to be picked up by an ambulance and taken to the hospital immediately. (One thing that is important to note, hospitals petrify me.) The mere mention of the “H” word had me hyperventilating and choking on my spit and tears. 

Fortunately, the hospital ended up being just like another hotel. The only indication that it was a hospital was the nurse who walked me to my room. She handed me four bags of pills and explained in broken English when to take them all. After she left, I sat on the bed and read the labels stuck to each bag; Chlorpheniramine maleate (antihistamine), Bromhexine Hydrochloride (mucolytic), and two bags: both labeled Favipiravir. The first bag of Favipiravir had instructions to take nine tablets after breakfast and dinner. The second bag instructed me to take eight more tablets the next day. Both bags of Favipiravir failed to explain what they were supposed to do for/to me. I tend to be a little too trusting, so if not for my mom voicing her concerns about the unfamiliar drug, I probably would not have even bothered to look it up. After a google and a call to my home doctor, I learned of the medicine’s experimental nature. Since it hadn’t been fully approved yet for treating Covid-19 and my symptoms were between mild and nonexistent, I decided not to risk taking it.

The week that followed was a blur of Netflix’s Emily in Paris and trying to get the hospital to communicate with my traveler’s insurance. Between the eleven-hour time difference and the language barrier, this proved to be nearly impossible. Throughout my stay, I was awoken each morning around 7 am for a temperature check. One afternoon I was escorted into the hallway for an x-ray. It was unclear whether this was to wrack up my bill, or because Thailand was taking covid so seriously. It could have been both, but considering I didn’t even have a cough, the x-ray felt like unnecessary radiation exposure. They intended to give me a second one near the end of my stay, but I kindly refused it. 

After two weeks of total solitude and the hospital still having issues with my insurance, I genuinely believed they’d hold me there for the rest of my life. Alas, I was released when promised with a record of my recovery and the blissful feeling of freedom.