Adorning a forgotten mask and riding shotgun in a campus golf cart—carrying pillows, bed sheets, a luggage case and a backpack—my ride of shame announced my COVID-19 diagnosis to the world. The expedition from Centennial Towers, along South High Street and through the heart of campus was met by the smirking, chuckling faces of passersby who had undoubtedly learned of my fate. Destination: Hilltop.

Mere hours earlier, I received a deluge of messages and emails from the HCC and DU’s Housing Protocol Team, notifying me of my impending diagnosis and imminent “golf cart ride.” Included were numerous resources such as suggested packing lists, meal ordering instructions, infinite phone numbers and emails to contact as well as forms to complete, followed by a warning of “MORE RESOURCES” to come.

After documenting the past five days of my social life for the COVID Response Team Representative via phone call, I soon found myself exiled to an old, unfamiliar building where I was greeted by additional COVID Response Team staff members offering their practiced condolences.

I was hustled into an empty yet spacious apartment when my golf cart driver informed me that they had forgotten to bring a “goodie bag” designated for me and would go retrieve it. It never came. I began exploring my new home, discovering little but a couple of fans and extension cables scattered about.

Shortly after unpacking, settling in and finishing homework for the evening, my roommate from Towers sent a text in our group chat: “I tested positive.” “Damn,” I responded. Our suitemate had only recently returned from isolation himself, divulging his experiences a week prior. We were naive then, yet he understood the dire straits my roommate and I now found ourselves in.

Despite my suitemate recently returning from isolation, exempted from testing for 90 days while considered immune, and myself being moved to Hilltop only hours earlier, the Housing Protocol Team elected to relocate my roommate.

“I was chillin’ in my room, watching YouTube, and they showed up at my door and told me I needed to move into isolation,” said junior Nate Getz, my roommate. “They asked if I was packed. I said no.” 

Nate was given approximately 15 minutes to pack. Taking a seat in the rear rather than the passenger, he described his own golf cart ride to Hilltop as being a “scary-ass drive.” “I was gripping onto the side rails; I was afraid I’d get launched out,” he added.

Upon his arrival, he was hopeful he may get his own apartment. Much to his dismay, however, he was informed he may have a roommate. It was me: reunited at last.

Lacking both a key to our new apartment and a complete understanding of what had suddenly transpired, we exchanged our stories from the past few hours, discussing the rules, building and what to expect of the coming days. Despite my jealousy that he had received his goodie bag, I was content.

The two basic rules of isolation prescribed for us and our new neighbors within a myriad of papers, pamphlets and packets were as follows: No visitors allowed, and stay in your living space.

Day two found us attending bygone Zoom classes, finishing homework and enjoying the finest of free cuisine. At noon, lunch was served in the form of an ice-cold cheeseburger, tater tots, salad and a rice Krispie for dessert.

At approximately 5:00 p.m., given the worn, outdated condition of our apartment’s furniture, installations and appliances, my roommate accidentally locked himself in the bathroom. After attacking the door for almost 20 minutes, he was freed.

This was followed by the incessant chirping of both smoke and gas alarms that dotted our apartment, requiring almost an hour of combined brainpower to determine how to silence the rather complex devices. What culminated was the slashing of the alarms’ wires with a kitchen knife. Do not fret, however, no fires or noxious gas leaks took place, and we responsibly left a note.

Day three was perhaps the most uneventful of the lot, even for Hilltop. I spent most of the day staring longingly outside behind a caged window, casually pondering if my rights were being infringed upon.

Day four, however, was an important date. I was scheduled to take my first COVID retest. Per the HCC, those who are fully vaccinated have the opportunity to complete two retests during their time in isolation to determine eligibility for early release.

“If the result of that test shows a viral load below the shedding threshold, you will be released the following day. If your retest still shows a viral load above the threshold you may retest two days later. If the second test still shows levels above [the] threshold you will be eligible for release after 10 full days,” read an HCC MyHealth message.

Naturally, I turned to Google and studied how to reduce my viral load. Forget midterms or finals, this would become the most important test of my life.

In the same message, the HCC urges those who are isolated to retest between 9:00-10:00 a.m., or risk getting locked out of the building. Adhering to this warning, my roommate and I marched to Nelson Hall’s Spit Lab to complete our retests.

Later that night, a third tenant was introduced to our apartment, disclosing in our cramped, narrow kitchen that they had actually tested positive two days prior, only just now being relocated into isolation. They were gone by the next morning, understandably retreating to their off-campus housing situation. They claimed that, in order to do so, they merely contacted housing, informed them of their intent to relocate, and were only told to notify them when they left without having to provide further details.

Given the perceived simplicity of relocating, this told me there is little managerial oversight, monitoring or accountability of the building’s occupants. Theoretically, nothing was keeping students isolated at Hilltop.

So, I left.

Just kidding, but it certainly crossed my mind.

Day five was met with a rude awakening. In medical terminology, my first retest yielded a positive result, yet it left me feeling quite negative. “The result of your test for the virus that causes COVID-19 showed a viral load above the shedding threshold. At this time, you are ineligible for early release from isolation,” read a most unwelcome message from the HCC.

Fortunately for Nate, his retest determined he was eligible for early release and was gone the following morning.

Alone, hope dwindled, and spirits diminished, my last opportunity to escape would come on the morning of Saturday, May 21, when I would take my second and final retest. Should the viral load remain above the shedding threshold indicated in this particular test, I would be subjugated to the full 10 days of isolation.

Day six featured much of the same headlining the third; staring out of my living room window, taunted by the waving, laughing and pointing of passersby. I responded by posting a “HELP” sign in my window.

My call was soon answered. The HCC provided the results of my second retest: “Effective immediately, you are released from Isolation,” it read.

The next day, lugging my belongings back to Towers, a driver pulled alongside me, asking if I had just gotten out of quarantine. “Yes,” I responded. “Have a beer,” he said. I had officially returned to society.

Why were we here? It was a question that weighed heavily throughout my stay. The obvious answer, of course, is to prevent spreading the virus to your family, friends and peers, which is righteous. But, why this protocol? Why Hilltop?

My roommate described his concerns about Hilltop. “The closest outlets were like 12 feet away. I had to use extension cords to the max,” he said. “They should have a way to do laundry and there could be a way of going outside, but having my own room is nice,” he added. He discussed how “annoying” it was that essential items such as toiletries, towels, sheets, pillows, etc., were not provided to us and that we were expected to bring them ourselves. My suitemate, sophomore Alex Moirano, shared this annoyance.

Alex, spending only several days at Hilltop in isolation before finding refuge at an off-campus location, complained of the staff’s unavailability. “They never brought dishes or silverware when requested,” he said. “They could have been more caring … it felt like they were doing the bare minimum.”

Undoubtedly, isolation can have a negative or adverse impact on one’s health and academics, a reality Alex faced. “It took a toll on my grades and mental health,” he said. “Professors wouldn’t really provide anything I needed to continue doing well. I fell behind.”

Perhaps most concerning was the lack of proper air conditioning, ventilation or sunlight made available, all essential environmental conditions promoted to combat COVID-19. The isolators assert that one is isolated in the interest of the individual and public health, all while ignoring the well-documented detrimental effects isolation has on the human body and one’s mental health.

With the exception of reaching out to staff in “emergency” situations, the provision of a goodie bag, food service and numerous resources to contact, essential supplies, ample medicine and items to foster comfort and entertainment largely came out of pocket.

Regardless, I can’t help but feel that as the quarter draws to a close and the university’s COVID response and testing policy are likely to change heading into the Fall quarter, this questionable practice could very well soon be discontinued.

Next time you see a Hilltop survivor, give them a hug. They’re no longer infectious, and they could really use one.