Reflections - A Shot in the Arm
COVID masks
How crazy did I want to get?
My brother Bob had texted, “Come to Florida. They're giving snowbirds COVID shots.” But computer savvy Bob clicked on website sign-ups in vain. He only got a vaccination because his son, a chef at Sarasota Hospital, had connections. That wouldn’t work for Spence and me.
In New Jersey, my sister Anita, also computer competent, researched daily for vaccination sites. She emailed, “They put out a notice that Hunterdon County receives 400-500 doses a week and at this moment, there are over 50,000 people in the county who are in the eligible groups. No wonder it is hard to get an appointment.”
And at the end of January, dressed in paper scrubs, surgical mask, helmet, and bright blue vinyl gloves, Jess polished my teeth. “Maybe I’ll see you at Meadville’s vaccination clinic. I work there Saturdays.” When I asked how to get an appointment, she said in a mask-muffled voice, “A doctor has to refer you.”
Spurred by these comments, I checked.
University of Pittsburgh Medical Center’s website announced shots for medical workers. “We’ll post a notice when we move to group 1b.”
Allegheny Health Network reported giving vaccines to groups 1a and 1b. Spence and I are 1c, but we could sign up to get an email when we were eligible. I filled in the computer form four times. The computer dumped each one.
I didn’t research Primary Health Network because Spence called their Sheakleyville office to renew his diabetes test strip prescription. The phone message before the menu said, “We are a designated COVID vaccination site. We’ve used all our vaccines, but we’re expecting more.”
Expecting more. Primary Health in Sheakleyville is my kind of place—small, folksy, and a fifteen minute drive from Wells Wood along back roads and across Lake Wilhelm. Maybe I could wait.
On February 2, NPR News broadcast that seniors and helpful relatives called public health centers repeatedly or vied to schedule appointments online in vain. Like the Groundhog Day movie, scoring a vaccination meant daily aggravation and failure. I could wait.
Monday, February 8, Nancy, the head township auditor, sat at the kitchen table with me to crunch general account numbers. “Did you get your vaccination yet?” Her face registered more concern than when she fretted over Zina’s ledger messes. “I keep calling. I’m on three waiting lists. But, it might be the same list that I put my name on three times.”
Resigned, I gave up even thinking about joining a waiting list. I didn’t need to compete with desperate shot seekers.
Biden would increase the vaccine supply during his first 100 days.
Sheakleyville would get more vaccines.
I would wait.
When Nancy left, I heated homemade chicken barley soup, settled in my hewn log chair, and took the first sip.
The house phone rang. Expecting a telemarketer, I let Spence answer.
He didn’t shout, “DON’T EVER CALL AGAIN” or say, in his polite explaining-to-the-cats voice, “We don’t do phone solicitations.” He pulled on his mustache and said, “My wife will want to talk with you.” He paced the room. “No . . . no . . . no.” Sitting at his computer, he tapped a few keys, moved the phone away from his mouth, and asked me, “Are you available for a COVID shot Thursday morning?”
Thursday, Spence, who never has reactions to flu shots, drove. He waited behind a sedan and pickup to turn off Route 19 into the health center. The parking lot held seventeen vehicles—almost three times as many as I’d seen on the center’s busiest days.
Primary Health Care Sheakleyville, PA
We didn’t get past the glass doorway because patients fanned out in three socially distanced lines. At the registration desk, Barb checked people in. She completed two more before spotting us. “Spence and Janet, you checked in online. Wait in that room.” She pointed to the left, the farthest of three waiting areas with three or four chairs socially distanced in each.
We read. Six pages later, Melissa called, “Spence and Janet.”
She led us to a spacious exam room. “I like giving couples shots. I put them in the same room.” Standing at the counter by the door, she frisked about preparing materials as if making hot beverages for visiting neighbors.
Spence and I sat side by side gazing out the window at sunshine sparkling off a snowy field. “It’s a Valentine date,” he whispered and pulled his shirt sleeve down to expose the top of his arm.
Melissa wiped his muscle with an alcohol rub, jabbed the needle, and jotted notes.
Her efficiency impressed me. “How many shots do you give in a day?”
“Thirty-five vaccines today and a hundred tomorrow.” Even through a mask, her voice sounded chipper. “I’m glad. It’s time we got COVID under control.”
I rolled my shirt sleeve up. The jab felt like a flu shot only better because I wasn’t crowded among strangers between aisles in a drug store.
Melissa set the timer. “I’m leaving the door open. Call out if you feel dizzy or sick.” She waltzed off to attend other patients. Before our timer rang, she popped back in and picked it up. “Nine seconds. Thought so. You’re good to go.”
We left with COVID-19 vaccination cards, stapled sheets about the Moderna vaccine, and appointment reminders to return on March 11 for the second shot.
If the first vaccination worked, March 12 will likely be a down day. Friends and newscasts predict fatigue, headaches, chills, fever, and body aches. For the good of the community, the country, and global humanity, I'm ready. Like Melissa said, “It’s time we get COVID under control.”
No need to go crazy.
Band-Aid
