Last Saturday, Susan and I visited Lucky Star Casino for a second time. On Sunday, we made two trips to Home Depot. By Sunday evening, both of us had sore throats.

Susan justifies her cough by telling me she always gets a summer cold. “Or it could be allergies,” she says, even though that’s not what either of us are thinking. Like a DVR, images of every person I’ve come into contact with over the past several days flashes through my mind. Turns out, we really don’t need cellphones for contact tracing.

By Monday Susan’s cough has worsened, and she is the first to decide to get tested. This is no small step; Susan hates getting medical tests for anything, and once infamously passed out during a mammogram. She woke up on the floor, doing the splits, topless.

Susan has done her research and found two places that don’t do the dreaded “deep nose test,” which people describe as having a Q-tip shoved up their nose until it hits their brain. One of the places is 35 miles away; the other, 45 miles. Susan asks if I will drive her, because she’s afraid she will pass out during the test. Secretly I have been planning to drive her all along, because I know she will pass out.

PART ONE

We arrive at Classen Urgent Care at the peak of rush hour. I don’t ask if I can enter the building with her, because we both know the answer. Instead, I wait in the car as she goes in for her test. The facility is next to a gym that uses Urgent Care’s parking lot as part of their jogging path. One at a time, runners emerge from the facility, do exactly ten laps around the parking lot, and then return to the gym only to be replaced by the next one. I kill the next 45 minutes by giving each one a nickname: Bad Hair, Posture Man, and Pink Shoes each do their laps and return to the building.

Princess Hollywood is on lap seven when Susan emerges from the building. I prompt her for a “thumbs up/thumbs down” signal, but she’s not looking at me. She’s not looking at anything. She stumbles to the car like an extra from The Walking Dead and gets in.

“I threw up,” she said. “Then I passed out.”

Over dinner, Susan tells me her results will take “3-5 days,” and that she has been advised to self-quarantine until she receives them. This throws a hefty wrench into our weekend plans. Susan’s birthday is Friday. Morgan’s is Sunday. We have a high school party to chaparone Friday night. None of this works if Susan is stuck at home.

It’s obvious that I have caught whatever she has, and we discuss the logistics of whether or not we will be quarantined from each other, too.

PART TWO

My symptoms are a day or two behind Susan’s. By Monday I had the sore throat. On Tuesday, I started getting that weird feeling in my chest that you only get when you’re sick. The problem is, waiting 5 days for results doesn’t help us with making plans for the weekend. I needed immediate results, and so I decided to take one for the team and opted for the nose-shoving, brain-tickling test.

Susan made an online appointment for me at Immediate Care in Yukon, although their system immediately moved my appointment to the location at I-240 and Sooner Road, 32 miles away. If you want a coronavirus test in Oklahoma, it appears you have to be willing to drive.

My confirmation email informed me my appointment time was 11:08 a.m., that I was to check in 10 minutes early, and that I would be texted reminders up to the time of my appointment. I had all the reminder I needed in my throat.

I arrived 22 minutes early, and at exactly 20 minutes before my appointment was scheduled to begin, I got my first text. Phone in hand and mask over mouth, I entered Immediate Care.

At the front counter, the young lady working the front counter informed me she did not have any record of my appointment. I asked her if this was Immediate Care. She said yes. I asked if I was at I-240 and Sooner Road. She said yes. I asked if it was June 24. She said yes. While we were talking, my phone buzzed. “Your appointment is scheduled to begin in 10 minutes. Don’t forget to check in!” The text was from Immediate Care at I-240 and Sooner Road. I handed my phone to the lady and asked if this text meant I was in the right place. She said yes. I said, I need to check in. She said, “I don’t have you in the system.”

In 46 years I have found little value in arguing with people wearing medical scrubs, and so I spent the next few minutes filling out paperwork attached to a clipboard. I was also handed a freshly sanitized pencil stub; one of the dull ones, normally found in the bottom of Putt Putt’s box-o-pencil stubs. I filled out the paperwork as quickly as possible and returned it to the desk.

“Will I still go back at 11:08?”

“People without appointments are first come, first serve. Please have a seat.”

My phone buzzed again.

“It is now 11:08. Please check in as soon as possible or risk losing your scheduled appointment slot.”

I grumbled something sarcastic about the term “Immediate Care” before sulking back to the waiting room.

I spend the next 45 minutes listening to two conversations. To my left are a married couple in their 70s. The husband is convinced the media has edited every video clip of Donald Trump in an effort to make him look bad. He spends the next 45 minutes playing random video clips of the president speaking, showing them to his wife, and explaining to them how each one has been doctored. She does not seem to be particularly interested in his research. Her lack of interest does not deter him in the slightest.

To my right are two women who I believe work together but have come to Immediate Care independently of one another. I have dubbed these two the “symptom twins.”

“Do you have any symptoms?”
“No. Do you have any symptoms?”
“Nope, no symptoms. But my mom didn’t have any symptoms, either.”
“She was asymptomatic?”
“I think so. Wait — does asymptomatic mean symptoms or no symptoms?”
“No symptoms, I think.”
“Okay, then yes. She had no symptoms.”
“What even ARE the symptoms?”
“Oh, there are a LOT of symptoms.”

If one of the symptoms is the desire to poke out your own eardrums, I definitely have coronavirus.

Nearly an hour after I arrived, I am summoned to a room where a nurse takes my vitals. My temperature and oxygen levels are fine, but my blood pressure is high.

“Maybe it’s because I’ve been waiting for almost an hour,” I said.

“Shoulda made an appointment,” the nurse responds.

My phone buzzes.

“Please check in with the front desk soon. We may not be able to hold your visit time.”

I am whisked from that room to another one which is almost identical, where the same nurse enters to administer my test.

“I’m not going to jab your brain,” she said. “I just need to get some boogers.”

I don’t know what this style of Covid test is called, but that’s exactly what she did — wiped the inside of my naval cavity with the end of a Q-tip, and then left.

Fifteen minutes later, a doctor entered the room. “Have you been exposed to anyone who has coronavirus?” I shook my head. He listened to me breathe and looked down my throat.

“It’s red,” he said, before leaving.

Five minutes later, the nurse returned with some papers. “Your test came back negative. Do you need a note?” When I told her I did not, she opened the door and held it open. This was my cue to exit.

“Is… that it?” I asked.

She nodded.

“What about my sore throat?”

She shrugged. “Probably strep.”

Two minutes later I was back in my car, thumbing through the three pieces of paper I had been handed. One page contains a long list of things “the doctor explained to the patient” that I assure you, the doctor did not explain to the patient. At the bottom of page two, the paper reads “SARS-CoV: Negative.”

After flipping through the pages, I pull my phone out to call Susan and tell her the results. As I do, I see that I’ve missed a text message.

“We’re sorry that you’re having trouble making it to the clinic. In order to keep other patients in process, we have removed you from the queue. If you still need to visit the clinic, please call or go online to check in again.”

I hope whoever performs the Covid tests are not the same people in charge of registrations.

Tonight Susan is coughing away on the couch as I drink ice water and clear my swollen throat every few minutes. I did not receive a prescription for any antibiotics, and am not even sure whether or not I actually have strep throat. The last paper I received says “come back if you are still experiencing symptoms in three days.”

I probably won’t.

The worst part about the entire experience is that during my visit I’m sure I was exposed to one or more people who had coronavirus, which kind of makes me want to go get tested again in a funny “dog chasing his own tail” sort of way.

(Since starting this blog post Susan has received her test results, and is also negative.)