Rohan Rao
Rutgers-Robert Wood Johnson Medical School
This is a reflective piece about my time volunteering in northern New Jersey in the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic. I worked as a specimen collector at a drive-thru testing site.
A cold, gloomy day was upon us, as we arrived
at the testing site. The sun was hiding
behind ominous storm clouds, as if it too felt
the unease that bloomed within me.
By a pale white tent,
whose flaps thrashed wildly in the wind,
we donned our protective gear.
Tent B was our assignment. Specimen collection was our role.
A gaggle of new, partially obscured faces,
we unsaddled our unfamiliarity to shoulder a shared purpose.
Swimming, though more aptly it felt like drowning,
through a sea of PPE, emotions were lost beneath the swell.
A tide washing away smiles, ushering in
a foam of gravitas onto our beaches.
With our expressiveness swept off,
a double-gloved thumbs up would have to do.
Cars arrived, in a trickle that quickly transformed
to a gushing stream. How fitting it was then, that
the sky began to shed tears on the passengers inside,
all anxiously awaiting their turn for testing.
To them, we were a spectacle. Aliens in our white protective suits.
Our approach induced eyes to widen or fingers to hit “record,”
even an audible gasp as I wielded the nasal swab.
“That goes where?!” she exclaimed. “I think you poked my brain,”
remarked another. But after ten seconds,
which accordingly felt like ten years, they were done and on their way.
With the last car swabbed, we doffed our gear,
careful not to expose ourselves and end up in that very same line of cars.
We laughed jovially, and recounted our dreary morning,
before going our separate ways.
But frequently, I find myself back in that parking lot,
watching the cars drive off, wondering how their stories ended.
Day by day, as I see the rising death toll in my state,
I strive to maintain my hopefulness, and stave off
that defeated sigh.