When I woke up last week from my troubled jet-lagged dreams, I recalled, to my dismay, that I was in self-isolation in my childhood home. A small sliding door separates my area of the house from the other parts.
According to protocol, I have to stay in my area. The food and all the other stuff will have to be left at my door. The thought of staying locked up for two weeks seems like a nightmare in which you have to escape but every door leads back to the starting point.
But I had one exit point. A coronavirus official at the airport told me that I would be able to get out of isolation ahead of schedule if I got two tests that both returned negative, because I already had a positive result from a previous test. "You do tests here?" I asked him. "Yes," he said laconically. "But I am not sure that would help you. You have to call the Health Ministry." So I asked, "Aren't you the Health Ministry?" He replied, "Yes" and left.
I was left perplexed but after getting off a 10-hour flight, I just wanted to go home and rest for an entire day.
My mother knocked on the door and asked if I needed something. "Coffee, thank you," I replied. I called the ministry and after waiting for a while on the line, a woman answered me. "How can I help you?" she asked. I told her about my situation. "You were misled," she replied. "You cannot leave isolation," she said. "But your representative at the airport told me that there is a possibility," I pressed. "No, I am sorry, have a good day," she insisted.
I called the HMO that gave me insurance for my visit. Maybe they would be able to help me, I thought. "Yes, you have a health coverage policy, but you are not a member of the HMO, you have to call the Magen David Adom first=responder service," they told me. But the first responders refused to give me a test because I was a-symptomatic.
My father knocked on the door. I told him about my situation and asked him if he has any good ideas. He said he knows someone at a nearby hospital and will consult with him. After an hour he comes back and knocks on the door. The official said I had to call the regional doctor. I called him and explained to the doctor what my situation is. He answered laconically: "Call my deputy." I called and explained: "I think there is no way out," he said. "Unless you get permission from your doctor in NY."
Another knock on the door. My sister arrives back from Pilates class. She asked me how I am. "It's good to hear you," I said. I sent an email to a doctor in New York and after several hours he answered. I forward his response to the regional doctor. "This is a serological test, we cannot accept this," he said. "In New York, we don't carry out tests to rule out coronavirus," I said. "I know, but there is nothing I can do, I am sorry."
I walked to the sliding door, and I heard my parents and sister talk. She talked about school, about how she was having fun and looking forward to the end of the course so that she could start giving Pilates classes. I went back to my room and lied on the bed. Perhaps I will just have to accept this, I told myself. Perhaps I will just have to spend two weeks of being in limbo.
