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Audiobook
First published March 15, 2018
I began reporting this story because the intersection between human society and the nature with which we interact is fascination. Mankind’s spread into the last remaining untouched parts of the natural ecosystem bears a cost—both to humans and to that ecosystem—with which neither side is prepared to deal. Conflict is inevitable; the outbreak of the Ebola virus in three desperately poor West African countries represents a worst-case scenario in microcosm.
What would—will?—happen when the next deadly pathogen with which we have no experience emerges? What would—will?—happen when someone infected with that pathogen boards an international airliner and winds up in the heart of London or New York or Beijing or Jakarta? I kept asking one question of those who had been so intimately involved in the response to the Ebola epidemic: Are we ready for the next one?
The answer, resoundingly, terrifyingly, is no. (283)As in Richard Preston’s Crisis in the Red Zone, Epidemic dives into the Ebola crisis of 2014—and what a future health crisis with broader global reach might look like. Timely, no? Epidemic came out in 2018, and while Wilson couldn’t have predicted COVID-19, both he and Preston are depressingly accurate about the general global lack of preparedness for such a crisis.
For years, Thomas Duncan languished, alone, thousands of miles from his family, the woman he loved, and the son he hadn’t seen grow up.
Duncan had been one of the hundreds of thousands of civilians who fled Liberia’s deadly civil war in the 1990s, forced out of his own home and into a squalid refugee camp across the border in the Ivory Coast. He had tried to start over, living with his brother in a tent. The two young men befriended the woman who lived in the tent next door, Louise Troh; Duncan fell in love. Amid the poverty of years in the camp, Troh and Duncan had a son, Karsiah, in 1995.
Everyone in the camp longed for a visa to the United States, a veritable golden ticket that held the promise of a new life on American shores, far away from the violence and poverty of the home they no longer knew. Troh and Karsiah won the lottery in the late 1990s; Duncan, who had never married his partner, was left behind. He spent another decade and a half in the camp, where he learned French, Ivory Coast’s official language.
Finally, in 2013, Duncan, still yearning for a ticket to America, felt it was safe enough to return home to Liberia. He moved into an apartment and got a job as a driver for a FedEx contractor. Louise had moved to the Dallas area, where Karsiah had grown up as a promising student, a high school quarterback who won admission to a college in San Antonia.
Then, Duncan’s luck seemed to change. One day the phone rang at the home of Wilfred Smallwood, the brother who had shared Duncan’s tent in the refugee camp and who now lived in Phoenix: “I got my visa! I got my visa!” Duncan shouted, ecstatic. His life seemed to be moving again; he and Troh would be married when he arrived, his son thrilled with anticipation at the prospect of seeing his father once again. Troh helped him book his plane ticket, from Monrovia through Brussels, then to Washington and on to Dallas. (175)I remember reading about Duncan at the time, of course; in particular, I remember outrage that a man who had been exposed to Ebola—even if it wasn’t confirmed at the time—would dare to get on a plane, to risk bringing the virus to a country that until then had not been affected. (Not to mention, of course, racism and xenophobia…) I remember thinking, at the time, that it was hard to blame him—if my country was in the middle of an epidemic with a staggeringly high mortality rate and I had a ticket to a country with a much higher standard of medical care and no active epidemic of this sort…what would I do? I don’t remember reading this much of his history, but it paints his decisions in a very different light, doesn’t it? Whether or not he thought he’d been exposed to Ebola becomes almost a moot point. It’s not just about quality of medical care at that point, but rather about spending years hoping for a ticket to a different life, not to mention to loved ones. Of course he wanted to go.
In August when Nolen deployed for the second time, this time to Sierra Leone, she found a situation very different from the one she had left in April. In Freetown, the Ministry of Health was scrambling to respond. Few NGOs were operating at a high level. There were just two working ambulances in the entire country, and the beginning of the rainy season meant that many of the already-difficult roads became impassible. The system, Nolan recalled later, was “completely overwhelmed.”
Nolen and her team of six other CDC workers soon grew to fifteen. They spent their days tracking down trucks that could be used as ambulances, dispatching body management teams and identifying new clusters of Ebola. Some of the decisions the team was asked to make were moral dilemmas with no clear answer: One day, a colleague called Nolen looking for an ambulance to take an infant showing symptoms to an Ebola treatment unit. They couldn’t find a car seat for the child, and putting the baby in someone’s arms for the six-hour drive to the hospital would mean putting that person at risk. Eventually, they decided to strap the baby into a basket and hope for the best. The infant made it to the hospital, but it did not survive the disease. (144)But of course the US is not in an Ebola epidemic right now (though there have been outbreaks, albeit smaller ones, in parts of Africa since this particular crisis): the US is in a coronavirus crisis.