Two Sundays ago, 2nd May, I went to Tan Tock Seng Hospital (TTSH) to bring my mum home. The hospital was already under a state of lockdown given the Covid-19 outbreak in a particular ward. Almost all patients and staff were tested in the days that followed, and thankfully my mum tested negative, twice. She was given the go-ahead to head home.
That Sunday I stepped into an almost deserted hospital. While my mum was getting ready for discharge, I was asked to get her medicines from the pharmacy. Typically, a pharmacist would come up to the ward with the corresponding bag of meds and run through the list with the patient or caregiver. That day however was a weekend, so only the on-duty pharmacists were available to run the actual pharmacy. The nurse egged me to head down to the Emergency Department (ED) pharmacy, the only one open on the weekends at TTSH, to collect my mother's medicine. I was hesitant because she already had a tonne a meds at home from her recent visits to TTSH, but I figured I might as well stock up on certain meds for her stomach acid complaints. I headed to the pharmacy located right next to the ED at level B1 of the main block. There were about 8 people waiting there as well, all with queue slips with a number to look out for on the electronic display. The pharmacy itself is a room but we weren't allowed to sit inside because of social distancing rules. Instead, there are plastic seats right opposite the pharmacy's heavy glass doors. So those collecting medicines were sitting, standing or just milling about the small open space, hopefully entertained by the television screen with CNA showing on the left and queue numbers in a column to the right. We were semi-cordoned off the ED area by shoulder-height partitions. Behind them were lots of office chair piled up. Convenient area for storage perhaps.
I waited there for about 30 minutes, standing near the seats, practising slowing my breath down. In that time, I saw several people arrive at the ED, registering at the safe entry counter. One lady visitor stood out in my memory because she loudly said "No lah, I don't have Covid. Only you, the hospital, have Covid now!", likely in response to a typical question from the Safe Entry registration staff about contact with Covid-19 sufferers. She was laughing a little when she remarked those words but her voice quickly tapered off as she realised her faux pas of humiliating the facility she was about to enter.
There's a set of lifts that open to that little space. Heaven knows where they lead to. The sliding doors to the lift lobby opened once or twice while I was waiting there, and a nurse would appear pushing a patient in bed, into the walkway connecting the ED area to the main block. These magic nurses had to announce the presence because some of us waiting were in their way. The layout of the area made it hard to turn the beds into the walkway, and made more difficult with two vending machines taking up space just outside the lift lobby doors. Silly layout. I've added a simple sketch of this space that hopefully explains my mutterings.
Soon the number on my ticket appeared on screen, and I collected the medicines. I went up to the ward, got my mum into a wheelchair and we left the hospital. It must have been about 1pm.
At about 9pm the next night, Monday, I got a call from a number I was not familiar with. I was on my Mac at the dining table while my mum was on the daybed watching TV. My new helper was in the kitchen cleaning up post-dinner. The man on the phone introduced himself as John from the Ministry of Health (MOH). He went on to tell me they were alerted to my proximity to a positive Covid-19 patient via the Trace Together app. The Bluetooth waves from my phone got in touch with someone else's. He asked if I was the TTSH ED the afternoon before at about 12 noon, and replied affirmatively, explaining that I had waited in front the ED pharmacy to get medicines. He then said I would have to quarantine myself at a hotel for the next two weeks because someone who turned out to be Covid-positive showed up at the ED at about that period of time.
It's an odd feeling when a stranger tells you that your life has to be uprooted and placed in the hands and watchful eye of other people. I think the last I felt this lack of personal control was when I went into Basic Military Training for National Service where life was lived by command and not personal will.
Then it was my turn to drop a bombshell on unsuspecting John.
"I can't quarantine in a hotel. I need to give my mum her meds, 4 times a day. "
"Is there anyone else who can do that?"
"I have a helper but she's not been trained to do that, yet."
Then it was John's turn to return hellfire after my single salvo. "Then all of you have to quarantine at home."
Well played MOH man, well played. I then had to give John all our personal details and he described the requirements of our imprisonment for the next 14 days. He talked about not leaving the flat, that someone would come to come see us, and that we would need to do swabs for Covid-19 tests. I also confirmed with John that I should call 995 if my mum needed help. He also gave me a number for Certis Cisco - they would be following up with my existence in isolation for the next fortnight.
I took a deep breath and told my helper, and she replied "Oh my God." For someone who doesn't speak English too well, I was a little impressed for a moment but quickly realised that she has probably learned many cliched phrases from American television. I also called my sister to explain the confinement. She was wondering how I would feed myself and the rest of my fellow detainees. I replied "RedMart lah."
To give some context to my current life, I have been unemployed for a few months, and since the last lockdown I also spent an inordinate time not working after being laid off. In that time also, my mum also developed certain medical problems. So some of my available time has been spent looking after her, bringing her to appointments, dispensing her medicines and trying not to fall apart. It has been a tough admittedly. I have given this glimpse into my life because spending much time within my current confines would not be new to me, lockdown notwithstanding.
But even during the circuit breaker, I got do my walks. And now, no prolonged cardio. I was going to get fat. Well, less thin.
And I was worried for my mother because she needed to get out of the house for exercise, fresh air and acknowledging children at the playground. The next morning though, my mum wasn't quite responding the way she should. So I called 995. I told the paramedics about the quarantine order and they took her away to SGH without any company.
I spent the rest of Day 2 thinking about how I got into this predicament. I imagined if I had not turned on Bluetooth on my phone, I wouldn't need to confined. Was I right? Would MOH have been able to figure out I was near the ED otherwise? Perhaps with some clever sleuthing and many questions, but it would need an army of detectives to go figure out everyone's movements in the hospital at that time. I wondered if the pharmacy and ED staff had to isolate themselves too. So many people affected by one person reporting to the ED.
I also called Certis Cisco to let them know my mum was in hospital. The phone rang and cut off. I tried again and the same thing happened. Hmm, interesting I thought. The only number I have for people in charge of my life in limbo wasn't connecting. Later that day, a lady from Certis Cisco did call me back. The phone call sounded like she was in a call centre full of frantic people. She asked for my mum's, my helper's and my details again. I wondered why John couldn't pass them along but obliged in any case. She said someone from Certis Cisco would be coming to assess my home and us inmates (not in those words), and gives us electronic tags to wear. Hey, welcome to the thug life, I thought.
I told the lady about my mum being wheeled away to hospital and she replied in an unexpected manner. "Why didn't you call us first?" Well, firstly, 995 is the national emergency number for medical help, and secondly your number didn't work, lady. I thought these things as I replied, trying to keep my slightly triggered self at bay. She acknowledged it had been very busy where she was with the uptake in the Covid-19 cases. "Sure, but this is the only number I have to contact you guys. Somehow Certis Cisco has got to make it work." My optimiser side was kicking in, wondering how everyone was coping and not coping in this potential shitstorm.
I also had to update my Town Council on my situation because I was no longer able to dispose of garbage at the common lift-adjacent rubbish chute. A necessary daily activity that I could no longer fulfil on my own, a realisation that made me a little sad.
By the end of Day 2, I was rather upset. My quarantine could have been prevented if someone in TTSH thought about how sick people reporting to the ED could possibly infect others waiting in the proximity of the Safe Entry and ED registration areas. I wrote an email to TTSH about my observations, CCing a number of important people. I have received an email a few days later acknowledging someone in TTSH had read my penned-down frustrations and suggestions for making things better, with a promise to investigate.
The next day, the doorbell rang at about lunch time. A Chinese man in Certis Cisco uniform had appeared with a file folder and sealed, white plastic bags. He didn't really introduce himself and I strangely just let him in, like the completely nonchalant acceptance of an eventuality communicated to me over the phone. Like a RedMart delivery.
He made some small talk and read out the our names. He sounded like a local Ah Beng in his 40s who had been put into a washer-dryer to make him socially acceptable. I get a little annoyed when Singaporeans can't make an effort to learn how to pronounce names of persons of other ethnicities, not even phonetically. He skulked around the apartment, asking who slept where. I was rolling my eyes inside.
From his folder, he pulled out two printed sheets of paper and two bags, each with a mask and digital thermometer. The sheets had a table which my helper and I had to individually fill in our body temperature 3 times a day. "Somebody will call to ask", Cisco man tried to say sternly.
He then fished out a few boxes from one of the sealed bags. He introduced the devices inside - a wristband and an electrical adapter - as the proximity tags we would need to wear. They were serialised and linked to our respective IDs. They would alert MOH if any one of us stepped out of bounds. He passed me the adapter to plug into a socket. I turned on the power.
"Any light?", the man in blue asked.
"Nope", I replied.
It was a dud. He ripped open the 2nd bag and took out the tracking set for my helper. We plugged that in and also a disappointing non-event. At this point, I was thinking two things:
- What is the degree of incompetence the powers that be must he facing in dealing with this pandemic.
- I wasn't told that my electricity bill would go up as a result of my incarceration. To whom would I charge this expense?
He made us both sign an official document stating the terms of our quarantine. The gist was we couldn't leave home, had to be always contactable via our mobile phones, and any contravention meant we were liable for a $10,000 fine and some jail time. Here's the bit that stood out to me though - the quarantine would cease only on the last stipulated date at 12 noon OR when the result of second swab test was announced as negative, whichever was LATER. Yikes, given the mounting numbers and today's display of unimpressive rigour, I had a nagging feeling something would go wrong to delay our promise of freedom.
That day, I also called SGH to get an update on my mum - no one was picking up the phone to her ward. More triggering.
I woke on Day 4 with an SMS from MOH. It stated where and when I would get my first Covid-19 swab done. Yay, I relished the opportunity to leave my flat. First however I had to ascertain aspects of this enforced encounter, so I called the Certis Cisco lifeline. 40 minutes later someone picked up. My faith in good old Singaporean efficiency took a hit.
I asked how the transportation to the swab site would work. The lady on the other end told me that each person had a vehicle assigned. I let out a little laugh at this point. I then advised that my mum was in hospital and that her vehicle would not be necessary. She said she'll make a note of it. I then proceeded to tell her I waited for 40 minutes on this "emergency" hotline for someone to pick up the phone. She apologised and said they were swamped.
After I completed that call, I called the SGH ward number I was given for my mum. Again, no one picked up. I then called the SGH main line to tell them I could not get to my mother. The lady at the other dialled the number she had for the ward and guess what, no one picked up either. She told me there was no other way she could to through to the ward. I asked for a way to escalate the matter so she gave me the number for the Feedback Office. I called them and told another lady there about my problem. She promised to follow up. Great.
"Hello I am calling from MOH. What is your temperature?" was the next blunt telecommunication I received. Phone in hand, I walked over to my temperature sheet and declared "36.6".
"Ok" and he unceremoniously hangs up.
I don't get why these guys can't be polite. They're calling up people who are essentially trapped, likely frustrated and possibly homicidal. A little courtesy would make that tad bit of difference to morale. Is there no prepared script?
My phone rings again. It's the driver for my swab ride. He tells me he'll pick us all up in his taxi. I'm glad some common sense prevailed. I ask where I and my helper would meet him, or if he would come up to my flat - a question I forgot to ask Certis Cisco after my 40 minute wait. He replied that we should come down to the block's pick up point. Cool, my ride awaited my arrival at 130pm.
--- To be continued ---
Update - part 2 here
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