My first PCR swab test
It turns out PCR swab tests are not required for landtrips between certain provinces or destinations, but if you can afford it it is best to do so. It also depends on your destination, as different LGUs will be at different levels of quarantine. Best to do your research before your trip. I took my test before my trip to Pangasinan for the holidays.
I made my appointment at the hospital which was taking both drive-in swabs and swab tests in the clinic. I had seen people take the test in videos on social media, and my fiancé herself took the test a week before and shared with me her experience.
So I felt like I knew what I was getting into. As I waited for my turn I quietly observed those swabbing before me. The clinician, fully dressed in PPE, gave her instructions. First, she would take a swab and rub it along the sides of your throat. Next is a swab down both nostrils, and that would be it. Easy enough.
But lo and behold the first patient I observed taking the swab test had a gag reflex after the throat swab. The next person seemed to do ok, but the patient after that began tearing up while the swab was going down their nose.
By the time I was up I was bracing for impact. Would I proceed unaffected or would I end up being the first person in the world to swallow an entire swab through my nose while fainting? The clinician explained the procedure to me as she was pulling out the swabs from their packaging, like a samurai pulling out a sword before the killing blow.
“Say ahhhh.” The throat swab procedure began as she lifted my chin like a mother would before giving her child a spoon of medicine. The only difference was she was a stranger about to stick something originally for your ears (which it actually isn’t) deep into your nose and throat.
The first thing I didn’t expect was how big the diameter of the swab would feel like in my throat. I felt like it had almost sealed off my entire pathway of life-giving oxygen. My throat began to constrict, possibly out of panic. “Say ahhh,” she repeated, as she dug and twisted the damn thing for what felt like an eternity.
Finally, she pulled the swab away. I began to lean forward to attempt a fetal position. But what would the people waiting in line think? I must be strong, if not for them, then for the guards at the hospital who would have had a difficult time lifting me from under the swab test counter. Or for our National heroes. For Jose Rizal, or Gabriela Silang. Rizal Day was indeed approaching, I would make an offering to the nation’s famous polyglot by writing a poem in 3 Philippine languages if I survived this day at the hospital.
Without breaking pace or taking pause to allow my lifeforce to return to original pre-swab levels; in a blur of ripped swab packaging, gloves, and PPE fabric a fresh long swab appeared before me as I took a deep breath and said a prayer.
“Lord,
So I know I don’t talk to you often. But please don’t let this next swab do damage to my brain or make me yelp like one of those cartoon dogs shaped like hotdogs in the Simpsons. Are there any new episodes of the Simpsons? If not, how could you not allow any more seasons to continue?”
The swab was driven deep into the crevices of my mind. I could feel it in my past, and my future.
Initially I tried to close my eyes and await the end of the procedure. Instead they widened, not in awe of the advancements of modern medicine, but in a quiet shock as I realized that my nose went back deeper than I ever dreamed, further than I have ever picked. She went deeper than any finger could possibly go. For years I wondered as a child how deep do our nose holes go? And finally, this swab clinician found the answer.
As the swab finally retreated from the first nostril, a rush of cool air entered it providing temporary relief for what was to become an uncomfortable burning sensation. The sensitive and unexposed skin lining the deep inner recesses of my nostril were touched for the very first time. Water began to pool in my eyes. Were they tears? Or the result of nose water being pushed back into my head and out of my tear ducts like some sort of nasal syringe? There was only one way to find out. Accept the fate of my last and final nostril, and allow it to succumb to the incoming spear of cotton and plastic. “Yes,” confirmed the second and final nostril, “those are tears.”
After the test I left the hospital with burning sensations in my brain. I thought about the millions of Filipinos and people traveling over the holidays who could never afford a PCR test that could explicitly tell them to stay home and keep everyone safe. A few hours later I received the email indicating that I was negative, but it also indicated that it depended on the “viral load” at the time of my test. I guess you can never truly be sure. But like all other matters in life, if you have the resources and wherewithal, you have the privilege to get closer to the truth.