Wonder what a coronavirus test feels like?
Daily Press reporter shares her experience
PORTSMOUTH CORONAVIRUS TESTING EVENT — Hours after getting tested for coronavirus, I could still feel where the swabs had penetrated my nasal passages.
I didn’t have any symptoms, and as far as I knew I hadn’t come into contact with anyone who contracted the virus, but for journalism’s sake — and my own curiosity — I wanted to know what it was like to get tested.
I’d already experienced contact tracing through an agreed-upon roleplaying scenario in which I made up symptoms, so when the Portsmouth Health Department announced it was offering free testing at a community event over the weekend, I thought it was a good a time as any to add getting tested for COVID-19 to my resume.
About 3% of Virginia’s population have been tested for coronavirus in the 2½ months since the state started testing. But health officials repeatedly have said widespread testing is one of the key measures needed to bring the spread of the virus under control. Virginia’s goal of administering 10,000 tests a day has only been met a handful of times, even as most of the state has moved into Phase 1 of reopening.
And it was recently announced that the state health department was tabulating PCR tests — a diagnostic test that tells you if you have the infection by looking for parts of the virus — and the antibody test together, something experts say could inflate the number of tests actually administered. It’s also unclear whether the antibody test is a true measure of whether you’re immune to the virus.
“If I had a positive antibody test, I would still be obsessive about washing hands, covering my face, practicing social distancing,” Health Commissioner Norm Oliver said Friday when asked what advice he would give to people who tested positive for coronavirus antibodies.
“In other words, acting as though I could still get COVID-19,” he said.
In Portsmouth, where I live, 2,831 people were tested as of Saturday. The total likely doesn’t include the 200 people who were tested Friday, the first day of the health department’s community event. Eleven people have died in Portsmouth from the virus, and 253 people have tested positive.
I arrived at Tidewater Community College’s Portsmouth campus about 20 minutes before the testing began Saturday to find what I estimated to be about 100 cars in front of me, lined up neatly around the large parking lot, orange cones separating the rows of cars. When I called Thursday afternoon to pre-register, someone at the Portsmouth Health Department told me I’d barely made the list, and there were only 10 slots left out of the 400 for both testing days.
As I inched along in my car, I returned calls from readers. Some wanted more information on how to get a contact tracing job; others wanted to talk about government control and share their dislike of Gov. Ralph Northam’s possible mandate of wearing a mask in public.
I tried to remember what life was like pre-coronavirus. I wondered whether every person in front of me was feeling sick, and how many tests during the community event would come back positive. As I got closer to the testing site, I began getting nervous.
When I finally pulled up to the large blue-and-white tent after about two hours, I was greeted by health department workers, Virginia Medical Reserve Corps volunteers and Virginia National guardsmen. All were wearing face masks and gloves; some had on face shields. I was asked for my age, marital status, address, birth date, phone number and race, as well as whether I’d experienced any symptoms or had any pre-existing conditions.
Finally, it was my turn. A medic in a yellow gown greeted me, opened the swab package and told me to lean my head back against the headrest.
“Just try not to scrunch up or pull away from me,” she said as she readied the first swab and brought it toward my face with a “here we go.”
I gave an involuntary gasp and immediately did exactly the opposite, scrunching my face tight and trying to repel the thing from my body while clutching at the sides of my seat and kicking my legs.
I thought the descriptions I’ve read of the swab poking your brain were incredibly accurate. As I leaned my head back, the swab entered my nostril and morphed into a giant wooden stick that felt as if it had penetrated the layers of my brain, making my eyes water, my ears pop and my throat clog.
I felt the medic — who seemed lovely — twisting the swab around somewhere near the back of my head, and I hated her for those 15 seconds. Then she did it again in the other nostril, telling me to relax while I stomped my foot in protest.
When it was over, I sputtered and gagged, and the medic told me to have a nice day.
“That’s it?” I asked, still coughing. “That’s it,” the medic responded, looking back at the line of cars behind me, clearly trying to move me along.
Now, I wait for the phone call from the health department with the results, which I’m told will happen in the next few days.
When I got home, I texted a friend in New York who’d tested positive for the coronavirus months ago, asking her if her experience getting tested was as awful as mine. In my mind, there were now two kinds of people in the world: those who’d experienced getting a long swab shoved up their nose, and those who hadn’t.