1. Alive and Well at Camp Covid

The Alberta Health Isolation Hotel Program

I'm living in a hotel in downtown Calgary thanks to the Hotel Covid Isolation Program here in Alberta, Canada - a program that has been rolled out across Canada.

Catch up on the rest of the story and read the tales of 'Camp COVID' in order: 1. Alive and Well at Camp Covid 2. Adventures at Camp Covid 3. Life and Times at Camp Covid 4. Enlightened at Camp Covid 5. Leaving Camp Covid 6. Camp Covid Epilogue 7. Return to Camp Covid NEWS: Calgary Herald, Global News, CBC News

It’s been about a year since we first heard rumblings of “The Corona Virus” coming out of the city of Wuhan, Hubei province, China. What started as a punchline, “Corona Virus? I had that this morning after too many cervezas … HEEYOOOOH! Amiright?!?” has turned into something that will continue to shape generations to come.

But this article isn’t about the past or the future, it's about my current experience in my home province of Alberta, Canada. I am someone who has a close contact who tested positive for COVID-19 and what that means. I am not going to tell her story -- that’s hers to tell -- but I will you tell mine.

Today, I am locked in a hotel room in downtown Calgary for the next 10 days. I have signed an agreement with the province of Alberta to be in quarantine with no contact from the outside world until I am deemed safe to emerge.

How did I get here?

The Coles Notes are these: My partner, Jenn, started getting a cold last Monday. She’s a health-care worker, and to be absolutely safe she started wearing a mask around the house and that night I slept on the couch.

It should be noted that she is fastidious about following all the rules and recommendations over the past year, oftentimes to the point of me rolling my eyes.

Tuesday morning I got up nice and early and went to work at my studio, her cold was getting worse so I opted to work late at the studio and just crash on my couch. Wednesday her cold was worse still, so she booked an appointment to get a COVID test. I have decided to stay at the studio -- making the best of it -- while we await results.

Thursday morning we found out she has tested positive for COVID-19. I call 811, which is a direct line to Health Link here in Alberta, and am told that I will need to get tested, but I shouldn’t get tested right away -- in their words I needed to let the virus, “fester for a while” to ensure it has enough time to show up in a test. I’m told to stay where I am, not to go home, and that my test is booked for Saturday morning.

I do not have symptoms. I stay in my studio. The only time I leave is to go to the bathroom, or get an order from Skip the Dishes (no contact pickup). I wear a mask and sanitize in my studio, touch nothing with my hands, sanitize at the sanitization stands before coming back into my studio and lock the door behind me. It is a weird existence; the couch is doing a number on my back, and the isolation is doing a number on my head.

I’m just over 50 and last week three Alberta men in their 50’s died of COVID. There is a very real possibility that next week I’ll be dead. It’s a sobering thought to be one week away from dying alone in a hospital hallway. I still have stuff to do. The crazy shit that goes on in your head when faced with this potential and immediate future is tough revisit. So I won’t, at least for now.

Saturday couldn’t come soon enough and I was literally the first in line to get my drive-through COVID test at the old Children’s Hospital in Calgary. They’ve got it setup in the ambulance bays. I pull in, deep throat a q-tip, gag, and drive back to isolation after being told I’d get the results in two to three days.

Later that evening I got a text from Alberta Health Services marked 'URGENT'.

My stomach dropped. Fuck. That was quick. Like seven hours or so after my test. That can’t be good. Can it? I don’t even want to open the text and I’ve broken out in a cold sweat. The good news, I guess, is that if I am positive I can go home and ride this out with Jenn -- the bad news is this quite possibly could be the end. Shit. Did I mention that I still have stuff to do?

URGENT from AHS * COVID-19 Test Result: * Michael Dean is NEGATIVE for COVID-19 based on the test taken 16-JAN-2021.

Talk about mixed emotions. Immediately I have a sense of relief, followed quickly by guilt? I feel shitty that Jenn has to continue with being sick on her own, and also happy that I don’t have it. What a rotten feeling. We chat on the phone and talk about next steps. Obviously I can’t come home, and staying at the studio until she is no longer infectious while possible isn’t awesome. I decide that this is something I can figure out tomorrow (Sunday), for now I’ll just curl up on my sofa with my head on a pillow that was never designed for comfort or support, and try to get a good night's sleep.

Sunday. I finished editing episode 82 of ‘Dropbear and Panda Save the World Podcast’ that Jenn and I recorded via Zoom on Saturday and upload it for the world to enjoy. In it we talk about Jenn’s journey with the virus so far and find ways to stay positive in light of it all. Later that day I called 811 again and asked for advice on what to do given my situation, because further down in my YOU ARE NEGATIVE text message it states that because I have a close contact who tested positive that I need to quarantine for 14 days since my last contact with her. Even though I am negative with no symptoms, these are the rules.

And this, my dear reader, is how I got to where I am today.

“You’re where?” the ever-patient and professional Alberta Health nurse asks.

“Living in my studio. I’ve been sleeping on a couch. I was told last week not to leave and I can’t go home so what choice do I have?” I ask. Continuing my story I tell her, “I only leave to go to the bathroom down the hall. I wear a new mask each time, sanitize before I leave, sanitize during my trip, and sanitize when I return. I smell like a margherita.”

“Oh my. Hang on a minute, there’s a better way to do this.” she says.

When she comes back on the line she tells me that I can check into a hotel for the duration of my quarantine. Alberta Health has a system set up to deal with people in this exact situation; regardless if you are positive or negative and don’t have a place to stay, but need to be quarantined. I’m told that I’ll be getting a call from someone who will coordinate this whole thing shortly and will walk me through the process.

This is surreal. 

When the call comes through I need to listen and agree to a declaration that states if I go into quarantine I can’t come out until they say so, or I have a medical appointment. I can’t have deliveries unless they're for medication and I can’t see anyone for the duration.

“Bring a couple books, some clothes, and a charger for your phone.” they suggested.

Once I ran that gauntlet, and agreed to the terms, I was told to expect a call from someone who would coordinate my actual intake. It would either be that evening, or first thing Monday morning.

Monday morning the phone rings. A very pleasant and professional woman asks me if I’d prefer a hotel downtown, one by the airport, or the deep south? Downtown it is. She takes down all my information and asks when I can check in. An hour? She coordinates with the hotel and calls me back to say I can check-in in an hour and a half.

An hour and a half later I’m walking up to the front desk of the hotel. I haven’t shaved in a week, nor have I had a haircut in months, and my normally tight blue mohawk looks like a forgotten muppet strapped to the head of a homeless person. Oh, and I’m wearing a mask and wringing my hands like a maniacal super villain because I’m still sanitizing -- forever sanitizing -- because this is my life now.

“Mr. Dargie?” the concierge asks politely and not at all afraid. It’s a testament to how weird COVID has made the world that she didn’t bat an eyelash at my appearance but was the picture of total calm and professionalism.

“Camp Covid?” I ask.

Laughing she says, “Here’s your keycard, your paperwork, your menus and daily meal plans. And here is how you access the Internet. Please call me by dialing zero on your room phone when you’re settled in and I’ll tell you how this all works.”

And off I go to the 7th floor with my COVID QUARANTINE PACK in hand.

The room is nice. Not posh. But nice. It has all the things you look for in a hotel room -- most importantly it has a bed and a shower. Oh. My. God. It has a bed with actual pillows and a shower with actual water. I start to get a little teary-eyed. Dropping my Q-PACK and luggage I dive into bed and just lie there, stretched out, surrounded by pillows. I’m a starfish. I make bed angels and get into a pillow fight with myself. Later I’ll take a long, hot shower. Then I notice that there are too many lamps in this room. It’s weird. More on that later.

I call the front desk as directed and the phone pickups up after two rings, “Mr Dargie! How is Camp Covid?”

“Camp Covid is excellent, thank you.”

She goes on to tell me that I can order lunch and dinner directly from her off the menu in my Q-Pack today, but I’ll want to fill one out for tomorrow and leave it with my dirty dishes so it can be ready for the next day.

Skip the Dishes is going to miss me.

So here’s the deal with the Isolation Accommodation Vacation Package:

• You agree to stay as long as you are required to by Alberta Health Services, and you cannot leave your room except for medical appointments. There and back. Nothing else.
• In return you will get two snacks and three meals a day from a limited, but decent menu.
• You cannot get deliveries with the exception of medication.
• You cannot see anyone. The door stays closed except to get your meals, and put out your dirty dishes.
• If you “serve your time” as directed by AHS you are eligible for $625 Isolation Pay from the Government of Alberta

Let’s talk about the food for a moment. The food is good. Healthy. Cooked well. Decent selection during the week, with a set menu on the weekend. All in all it’s great. What I find weirdly comical every time food arrives is the process.

Knock. Knock. “Lunch!”, followed by the sounds of a tray being placed and then someone walking away. “Thank you!” I say, yearning for human contact, but it’s too late, they’re gone. I wait two minutes to make sure they've cleared the area lest I put them at risk, crack open my door, drag my food in, quickly closing the door as soon as the tray clears. I’ve never been to prison, and I imagine this is nothing like it with the exception of the “guards” and the regimented timing of everything that happens.

It’s weird. I organize my rations. Things I will eat now, things I will eat later, and things I may never eat but will keep just in case they forget about me or the world ends and I’m left here with nothing but a small supply of fruit cups, a spork, and seven used Keurigs.

The number of lamps in this room concerns me. Not all of them work, or perhaps I just haven’t found their nuanced way of working. It seems that each lamp is turned on and off with a different kind of switch. Like, they’re Frankenlamps each stitched together from the discarded parts of other lamps over the years. I’ve decided to name them.

My cell phone rings. It’s the Distress Centre. A very kind woman asks how I’m doing and that she’s just reaching out to check on my mental health. It’s part of the Isolation Package. I tell her that I’m doing well, I’m COVID-negative with no symptoms, and although a little stressed over everything that is happening I seem to be coping well, except that BRAD THE DESK LAMP refuses to release his secrets to illumination. I can hear her making notes. Yes, I will call the Distress Centre if I need to talk.

This is Day Two of at least ten. My routine so far involves standing up and doing laps of my room every hour or so, writing, working, reading, drawing, and waiting for the sporadic but mostly regimented human contact of my captur… er supportive hotel staff telling me food is here.

Oh, wait! There’s someone in an office across the alley in Elveden Centre -- I must find a way to communicate with them from Camp Covid.