98.6 Degrees

"Are you Matthew York?" 

Just as I’m exiting the jetway, an immigration official at the Newark Airport in New Jersey approaches me.

“Yes...how did you know?”

“That’s my job,” he says, kindly. “Please follow me.”

My arrival in Newark marked the third airport in as many days since my departure from Guinea on late Friday evening. I hadn’t been stopped in Paris or Amsterdam, but I noticed large signs encouraging passengers to take their temperature daily for the next 21 days. In 2016 America, however, the threat of Ebola meant a more hands-on approach.

As we walked through the airport, the officer smiles and asks me to look him in the eyes before peppering me with questions:

“Where have you traveled from?” Guinea 

“Have you had any contact with sick people?” No 

“Have you been pierced by any needle or visited a lab?” No 

“Have you had any fever, severe headache, muscle pain, weakness, fatigue, diarrhea, vomiting, abdominal (stomach) pain, unexplained hemorrhage (bleeding or bruising)?” No 

His professional, friendly demeanor is appreciated but unexpected. “Based upon the mass media reports I’ve read,” I comment, “people returning from work on the Ebola outbreak say they are treated poorly upon re-entry. But you are certainly good at your job,—friendly, warm yet professional.

"Thank you," he says with a slight smile. 

“So why was the nurse from Maine treated so poorly upon her return from Sierra Leone when she arrived at Newark?” I continue.

"I greeted her the same way that I just greeted you,” he replies sadly, and a bit disheartened. “But I had a mask on so maybe she felt differently. The news reports made me look really bad.” 

We arrive at an Ebola quarantine check-in station where I’m greeted by a staff person in gloves and a face shield. I’m the only one to be screened, and they get right to it. He aims a laser thermometer at my forehead and waits for a beep.

The wait is ominous.

I know what could go wrong. If my temperature is any higher than 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit, I’d be shipped to a quarantine tent in the back of a New Jersey hospital for three weeks. Anything higher than normal body temperature indicates fever, an ominous sign of Ebola infection.

The staff member avoids eye contact.

He’s silent.

Finally, he reads the number on the thermometer.

He pauses.

As I wait, I calculate that this is the 4th time a laser thermometer has been pointed at my forehead. The last time was when I was in downtown Conakry, also in Guinea, while visiting the 115 headquarters. Dialing 115 in West Africa is like dialing 911 in the USA except it is only to report a suspected case of Ebola or ask a question about the disease. The call center employs over 100 people and they have processed tens of thousands of calls since the outbreak began in October 2014. 

Prior to that, my temperature was taken at the Conakry International Airport as I first entered the airport to head back to the States. 

As many times as you’re subjected to the measurement, the experience doesn’t get any more pleasant.The time between the moment when the laser warms your forehead and when the results are reported seem like an eternity. If I failed the 98.6F/37C test, I could have been stuck indefinitely in Guinea, a country that had an inadequate healthcare system even before the word “Ebola” struck fear in the hearts of millions worldwide. There are not enough doctors or nurses. One of the most risky places for Ebola exposure is a hospital in West Africa. 

98.6 is an important number. One wonders if worrying about your temperature elevates it. 

I’m already hotter than normal: it’s always hot in West Africa, even in January, and people are sweaty all the time. As we wait for the results, my mind begins to race. I begin wondering about Fahrenheit and Celsius like never before. Why are there two scales? What is normal body temperature in Celsius? Why didn't I Google this before departure? Would they let me on the plane if I was a little over or under? 

I get a 36.6C, or a 97.88F. I’m under the mark, despite the sweat and worry, and cleared to board.

On the flight to Paris (in the airspace over North Africa), there was a commotion near the restrooms. A passenger had fallen ill and was passed out of the floor. A voice over the PA asked (in French) if there a doctor on board. We all feared that we'd have to land in Algeria, but the plane just kept on flying as the passenger continued to lie on the floor until we landed. We were forbidden to exit the airplane as a team of health workers entered the cabin and began working on the patient. All the passengers were concerned about so many things. Is the passenger going to be OK? Will we miss our connecting flight? Would we all be quarantined for 21 days in Paris? (Would we get croissants everyday for the next three weeks?) 

It seemed odd that none of the health care workers wore any protective gear except rubber gloves (no masks) as we sat for an hour on the tarmac. It was cold outside but getting hotter in the plane. We are all wondering if we are still 98.6 or 37. Fortunately, we were cleared to depart the plane. Connecting flights were held for us and many of us, were the last passengers to board their next flight (yours truly included).

Over the weeks prior to departure for West Africa, I had been encouraged to establish what my baseline temperature was, since few people really have 98.6. Mine averaged 97.9, which provided a small buffer. I was hopeful this would be a good thing for this experience.

Back in Newark quarantine check-in station, I refocused on the staff member taking my temperature. This was my first stop back in the States, and I was ready to get home.

I couldn’t really see his face too well because of the shield, but I could tell that he was afraid of me. Knowing my point of origin, he knew I could very well be a threat to his health. 

He shows the device to a co-worker and continues to ignores me. 

Does he know I run lower? Should I tell him? For me, 98.6 is elevated. My 0.7 degree buffer may keep me from an unscheduled three weeks visit in New Jersey, but if I was carrying the virus, I could put my entire hometown at risk of an Ebola outbreak. My mind whirls:

What should I hope for? 

Why couldn’t he just read the number to me out loud? 

He doesn't care about me. 

He only cares about 98.6. 

“97.9 degrees. Welcome home.” 

My mental spiral halts as the co-worker smiles and finally reads my temperature out loud.

CDC procedure requires that all returning passengers take a seat in the quarantine area for a briefing. Another expert arrives and provides a Check and Report Ebola (CARE) Kit, includes a mobile phone for the officials to call me twice a day and a digital thermometer. For the next three weeks, I’ll have to check my temperature and report my status to the officials. My friends will be afraid of me. They won’t invite me over for a long time, and they’ll avoid me in public for weeks. 

But at this moment, I don’t think about the future. I don’t worry about the stigma that’s to come.

The officials escort me to the front of the immigration line. 

A sense of freedom overwhelms me.