Two years ago on a Friday afternoon, we received word my husband's cousin, Ruth, had been admitted to a hospital in California for congestive heart failure.

We headed west for the six hour road trip the minute my husband returned home from work. During the course of travel, I phoned the hospital several times for condition updates, and as we neared our destination, obtained room number assignment.

I've never been great with numbers and this deficiency would become apparent soon enough.

We arrived following normal visiting hours, dictating entry only available by way of the Emergency Room. It was hosting wall to wall sick people and floor to ceiling germ parades.

I tend to become germaphobic when in the presence of mass illnesses, the odor of vomit, or displays of severe cramping. My anxiety peaked when confronted with the trifecta before me barely existing atop orange plastic chairs in the overcrowed human petri dish.

I quickly spotted the only person seemingly in charge and devoid of symptoms, a female security officer. The woman advised, bearing a heavy accent, that she would need to call the nurses station to determine if we could visit considering the late hour.

I provided Ruth's name and room number #2030. She scribbled 2070 down on a piece of torn paper the size of a postage stamp. In observing a distinct #7 in the #3 position with my dollar store tiger print 'cheaters', I politely told her she wrote the wrong number down and it should be a three in the third position.

'Ms. Badge' got a little pissy and retorted it WAS a three, before proceeding across the room to a wall phone I imagined was infused with staph bacteria. Who could blame the woman for being pissy considering her work environment.

Following a brief phone conversation, she returned to advise we were cleared for launch and directed us to the public elevators in the challenging accent describing a lot of right and left turns. I surmised Frank Lloyd Wright was not on the architectural committee for the build of this germy high rise.

Her left.right.left.right's got us to the only "vaaadder" we could find. Unfortunately, it was designated MEDICAL STAFF ONLY in large, bold authorative font that seemed to imply trespassers would be handcuffed and remanded to a chair in the ER waiting room until trial.

As if reading each other's minds, me and the hubs morphed into our best Dr. Kildare/Nurse Cratchett facades and rode that metal box fast and furious to the second floor. I might add, it was a hard sell in flip flops, a green flannel Notre Dame sweater, and the wafting aroma of Mickey D's quarter pounders with onions on our breath. We owned Mr. Otis like a boss and avoided eye contact during the assent.

Once arriving with a thud and eye rolls from the 'white coats' on board, we followed the hideous blue carpeting to the number I thought I remembered correctly while speeding across the desert earlier that evening...#2030. We were met with a large sign:

"ISOLATION!!!!! PROTECTIVE GARMENTS REQUIRED"

More authoritative font. The skull and crossbones did not go unnoticed either.

Just as I remarked to fake Kildare the warning seemed a little harsh for heart congestion, we were met by a another heavy accent; a nurse inquiring who we were there to see. I responded "Ruth XXXXX" which apparently in my accent sounds a lot like "Ruiz" as we would learn a few horrifying minutes later.

The nurse directed us to the supply cart parked next to the hermetically sealed door, which to my overstimulated imagination, now appeared to be pulsating.

We were directed to "suit up" right there in the hallway. Cool beans! Now we were really feeling authentic as Kildare and Cratchett and living the dream! I was hoping they'd let us wear them on the way out to squash future eye rolls on the MD'S ONLY vaaadder.

Once draped with the roomy yellow faux asbestos suits inclusive of thumb holes and purple rubber gloves; one- size-fits-all masks which carried the burden of keeping germs in check, we were ready to roll. Anticipating hyperventilating in my future, I asked for a brown paper bag. The idea of fainting on the germ infested blue carpeting seemed like a plausible reaction and I wanted to cover all my bases. My girl scout first aid training from the 1960's was kicking in big time.

Curiosity got the best of me during dress rehearsal and I asked "Are these to protect us or Ruth(Ruiz)?"

Eyes frantic and popping, the nurse responded "YOU EN AWL OF US", motioning feverishly as if conducting an orchestra toward the nurse's station and surrounding hallways.

Confused that heart congestion was contagious, I further queried, "Does she have Ebola too?" with a half snicker directed toward my Kildare.

Once passing inspection; masks engaged, thumbholes secured and attired in voluminous tenting, the nurse continued to press the metal bands across our nose bridges, repeating "NO GAPS, NO V'AIR!!!"

Mind you, at this point the voice inside my head is screaming RUN.LIKE.HELL. A phone call is just as good as a visit, right? Not a couragous moment I admit, but I was becoming sufficiently FREAKED OUT and the yellow bacteria barrier was doing nothing for my skin tone or body shape. I was already not having a great hair day and this double banded metal nose bridged tiara wasn't helpful.

Once cleared for catapult, I swallowed hard, put on my big girl panties and led in the forward position calling out Ruth's name as I pushed open the pulsating door with hands wrapped in purple sterility.

I rounded the privacy curtain and there he was. A young man about twenty-five years old staring back at us. Eyes wild on features thin and gaunt. He appeared more confused than m'wa. I apologized between gasps that likely compromised the stability of my facial germ barrier. I nearly flattened my husband in the pivot/push/full on body slam back out the skull and crossbones door.

Once we landed like an acrobatic team in the launch hallway, gasping and in need of the brown paper bag, the same nurse looked up from her HEPA protected chart as I declared, "RUTH ISN'T IN THERE!!" When she realized her mistaking Ruth for Ruiz, and the implications, I suspect her heart may have congested a tad too.

While she apologized in rapid fire mea culpas as we frantically "de-robed", managing to get off one camera shot before being told "NO VOTOS!!!" accompanied by more flailing arms and ALTO on repeat, then more rapid-fire apologies as she confessed 'Ms. Badge' from the ER security team relayed we were visiting Ruiz in #2030.

My frantic and repeated inquiries as to what we were just exposed to fell on deaf HEPA law ears. I surmised God was punishing me for the Ebola snark. Rapid fire Hail Mary's, Our Father's and a few Jesus, Mary and Joseph's ensued.

Ruth/Ruiz... I blame the #7 that was supposed to be #3 in the third position, and the pissy chick in the ER, otherwise referred to as Ms. Badge.

We did eventually find Ruth in #2036 and managed to build her endorphin levels with our tale of exposure to only God, HEPA, and the heavily accented nurse down the hall knows to what.

My husband and I lathered in purification essential oils after leaving the hospital that night.