So I know everyone has their own pandemic stories, some of them pretty crazy. It's been a wild ride over the last two years for all of us. But I think my story just might be the wildest. I still find it hard to believe it really happened. Let me set the scene for you.
In the summer of 2019, I moved to Japan. I was 22 years old, had just graduated from college in the U.S. (University of Wisconsin), and had taken a job as an English teacher in Japan as part of a cultural exchange program sponsored by the Japanese government. The program, which included free housing, set me up with a job at a junior high school in a small town about an hour north of Osaka. I had my own small house in a little residential neighborhood on the east side of town. The houses nearest to me were occupied by families with school-aged children, most of them very young. While few of them spoke more than beginner-level English, they were incredibly welcoming and friendly, often inviting me for dinner or bringing me food or other gifts.
Everything had been going fine until early 2020, when news of the coronavirus outbreak in China, and the ensuing lockdown of Wuhan, created a lot of anxiety. The people around me (and across Japan) began wearing masks everywhere as a precaution. The subject dominated the news. And my parents back in Wisconsin started agitating for me to come home. But I wasn't inclined to leave until my year long contract ended in July.
Then things took a really unexpected turn. I was walking home from work one day, around 4:30 in the afternoon, when I saw smoke billowing from the upper floor of the house directly across the street from mine, a house belonging to an especially friendly family with two elementary school age kids. As I ran up to the house, I heard something that jarred me: kids' voices, calling for help. I immediately ran to the front door of the house; it was locked. I pounded on it. The kids continued to call out, their voices seemingly coming from the second floor. I ran around back and thankfully found the sliding door unlocked. Once inside, I was enveloped in smoke. I ran upstairs, following the yelling, and came to a door that had been blocked by a fallen beam. I don't really remember much after that; it's all a bit of a blur. But somehow I managed to move the beam and open the door, and the two kids and I made our way out of the house just as the first fire truck arrived.
The good news was that everyone was safe. The bad news was that I managed to get third-degree burns on both of my arms and hands and was in blinding pain. My next semi-clear memory was waking up in the hospital, on significant pain meds, and with both of my lower arms wrapped under many layers of thick bandaging. I was there for almost two weeks, as I recuperated and my liaison with the education ministry made arrangements for me to fly home to the U.S. upon discharge. The issue was that, while I felt much better by that point, I would need to keep the heavy bandaging on for about a month and, during that time, would need support with basic things like getting dressed, bathing, and eating food. And I didn't have any support structure in Japan. Even my few expat friends had left the country in recent weeks due to the worsening pandemic. In the hospital, the nurses were doing all of these things for me, including the awkward periodic sponge baths, but I couldn't stay there indefinitely.
The day prior to my discharge, the entire family from across the street came to visit me. Due to enhanced COVID precautions, they had not been allowed to visit previously, but the hospital administration had eventually relented and made an exception given the circumstances. The father, Ikuro, who seemed to work all the time and whom I'd only met a few times, was the first to enter the room, and he immediately gave a deep bow. The mother, Mitsuki, who was very outgoing and often brought me food, came in next with the two kids, Yuki and Akira, standing sheepishly at her side. All of them bowed politely. My eyes, as always, were drawn to Mitsuki. She was strikingly pretty, even with her mask on, and I could tell that her eyes were welled with tears of gratitude. She spoke very limited English but more than the others, so she was the one who spoke on their behalf.
"We cannot enough thank you, Jake-san. We forever owe you our gratitude." She had clearly practiced these words. I thanked them for coming and told them that anyone would have done what I'd done. I also told them that I had to go home to the U.S. and that I hoped we would meet again someday. And that was that.
But then the pandemic intervened.
On the eve of my planned discharge and flight home, everything shut down. International flights were all canceled. There was no way to get home, at least in the near term. And there was no basis for keeping me in the hospital either. So I was released to return to my house in town.
As I sat on my bed that night, the gravity of my predicament started to sink in. I was alone, in a foreign country, at the beginning of a major worldwide pandemic of unknown duration. And my hands and arms were so bandaged up and useless that I wasn't sure how I would be able to take care of myself; to eat, to use the bathroom, to shower. The challenges of living on my own, without help, were daunting to say the least. The only thought that gave me any comfort was remembering that my house, like many in Japan, had one of those high-tech toilets with a built in bidet. At least I wouldn't need someone to help me wipe my ass.
Despite that minor comfort, by that evening, I was in full on panic mode. What was I going to do? How could I possibly survive like this without help? I had no close relationships with anyone in town. The few friends I'd made since moving here, expats who lived in neighboring towns, had already gone home to their respective countries.
HELP COMES IN MY HOUR OF NEED
It was then, as if in answer to my prayers, that I heard a knock on the door. Awkwardly, using my elbows, I pushed down on the door handle and managed to open it. Standing there, masked but beautiful as ever, was my neighbor Mitsuki. She was holding several pieces of tupperware. I beckoned her inside, where she immediately set about preparing the meal she had brought me. She told me in, in her broken English, that she'd heard I was stuck here and that she was going to take care of me until my bandages were removed. She said: "You no worry; I was once nurse; I take care of you; I help with everything."
