A visit to Seoul during Covid changed my opinion of a country I once despised

“Don’t wait. Go to Korea now,” said my aunt.

In November 2020, my mother’s health was rapidly declining and Dad was struggling to care for her. I wasn’t planning to visit until Covid was over. I told my father that I didn’t want to risk getting them sick. Truthfully, I liked that the pandemic prevented me from traveling to a nation that repelled me.

My parents, brother and I moved from America to my parents’ home country of Korea in 1979. Months after we arrived, President Park was assassinated. At ten, I knew I disliked authoritarian military regimes. On the fifteenth of every month, a piercing siren announced air-raid drills. The nightly curfew kept us indoors by midnight. At school, teachers spot-checked cubbies to confiscate any foreign-made items. Dad’s subscription toTime magazine came with blacked-out sections.

What I hated more were the unwritten rules for girls. Teachers reminded us of our responsibility to protect ourselves from boys who couldn’t control their urges. Even my progressive parents, willing to send their daughter to college, made it clear my goal was to marry well. Why dream of a career if female employees were expected to resign once they married and brides had to cook and clean for their in-laws until they got pregnant?

Seeking freedom, I fled to Chicago for college. I made a cleaner break from Korea by marrying Kyle, the enemy: a Japanese(-American). But I knew I couldn’t stay away any longer when, in late 2020, I learned my mother couldn’t even put on a face mask. Koreans had long worn masks as a courtesy to others and to avoid getting sick. Growing up, Mom crocheted masks lined with cotton gauze to perfectly fit our faces. Now I was losing her to Alzheimer’s. Being a work-family policy researcher in New York wouldn’t help me find elder care for my parents in Seoul — my PhD was rendered useless by my eighth-grade level Korean.

Thankfully, Kyle spun into action. I intended to go alone but he asked our teenage daughters if they’d attend their NYC public high school classes virtually from Seoul at night. They agreed.

“We’ll be a buffer for Mommy. We’ll keep things light,” Allison said.

“We need to spend time with Grandma while she still remembers us,” added Gillian.

Kyle researched Korea’s strict 14-day quarantine policy. To seclude ourselves at my parents’ home, we needed proof I was their child, and proof I was married to Kyle and the mother of our children. Their embassy recommended we get an Apostille for each US document. We only had time to certify our daughters’ New York birth certificates and even that required a $300 expediter’s fee.

“All we need is one bureaucratic guy who resents female international travelers or your Japanese last name, and we’re stuck paying $2,100 a person to quarantine in a lousy hotel,” I said.

“You need to trust people more,” Kyle replied, optimistically.

As we deplaned in Seoul on December 13, signs instructed us to download an app on our phones. A young cadet, probably fulfilling his mandatory military service, phoned my father to confirm he would house us. “Your father is anxious to see all of you,” he said when he finally got off the phone. His patience with my dad was endearing.

Next, an immigration officer checked our passports and took digital photos and fingerprints. Another reviewed our family relations paperwork. After looking up my parents on his computer, he cleared us to collect our bags. Exiting customs, airport staff set up a taxi-van driver, making sure we got Covid tests at my parents’ district’s health office before dropping us off at their home.

In the four hours between deplaning to arriving at my parents’ door, the Korean government had taken control of our phones, accessed private information, imposed a medical test, and forfeited consumer choice for transport. Yet instead of resenting the regimen, I was awed by how swift, sensible and safe it was. It was even cute when we received gift bags from the district health office. Along with face masks, bleach, hand sanitizer, thermometer strips, and toxic waste trash bags, we each got a planting kit with soil and seeds.

Entering my parents’ house, reality set in. I didn’t expect the feast my mother used to prepare for our arrivals, but I never imagined an empty fridge and my parents so thin. I learned about “sunrise” grocery deliveries and Kyle taught himself to cook a variety of jjigae and banchan.

Kyle purchased a hotspot, expecting wifi disruptions that never happened. We didn’t anticipate my mom interrupting the girls’ nightly Zoom classes to see what they were “watching.” We didn’t consider how loud my dad’s TV volume would be when my daughters were sleeping. Kyle ended up taking them home after four weeks.

Meanwhile, I learned of Korea’s universal long-term care insurance (LTCI). Anyone over 65 with physical disabilities or diagnosed dementia could receive benefits like in-home caregiver visits, full-time adult daycare and nursing homes. On December 23, I faxed the one-page form then phoned the district LTCI office. I was told the next step was a home visit and warned that Covid was causing delays.

Assuming I might never hear back, I researched private options. I found “silver cities” outside Seoul, large apartment complexes with amenities and assistive care on the premises. When I suggested them to my dad, he refused.

“I want to die naturally here,” he insisted.

“Daddy, you can’t dictate how you die.”

A retired Christian Ethics professor and minister, my Dad’s faith supplanted making any real plans. “Things work out. You worry too much.”

Thankfully, my definition of “delay” was longer than the government’s. On January 5, an official made a home visit. With a gentle, respectful demeanor, he interviewed my parents. He didn’t mind repeating himself to explain the process to me in simpler terms. Through the national healthcare system, he knew of my mother’s Alzheimer’s medication. All we needed was a doctor to complete a short form. The review board could make a decision within a week.

We soon received a text that my mother qualified for either full-time daycare or part-time visiting care. Our co-pay would be 15 percent, about $178 per month. They also gave me a list of service providers. Relieved, I broke down and cried. The government workers brought me tissues. I explained there was nothing like this in the US and I was grateful. The supervisor told me LTCI was their most popular service, with approval ratings of 80 to 90 percent.

Though daycare facilities offered a door-to-door van service, Dad felt it would be too exhausting for my mother. I agreed, fearing that he would be lonely without her. We ended up hiring a caregiver three hours a day, five times a week, and opted to pay extra for a weekly nurse visit to check in on my mother’s health.

My father was impressed with how quickly I got things set up. “I always wished you were my secretary,” he said. It was supposed to be a compliment, but I cringed. His low expectations still pained me. Before responding, though, I saw his tired face. He was trying his hardest to express his appreciation.

“Things worked out just as you said, Daddy,” I said, knowing I couldn’t take full credit.

The Korean government gave me precious time with my parents, provided assistive care for them, and kept us safe during a pandemic. While I longed to reunite with my husband and kids and return to my work in the US, for the first time in my life, I wasn’t so eager to leave. In fact, a visit to Seoul during Covid had ended up transforming my opinion of a country I previously despised.