Innoculated

February First, Twenty Twenty One was scheduled to be the Big Day.

 After weeks of increasingly half hearted attempts to locate a rare Covid vaccine during a “rollout” that wasn’t, I tried to remain philosophical, took precautions, but vowed not to be hyper vigilant, crazy, overly fearful, abrasive to others because of some perceived danger. Then, one morning as I listlessly played with some sign up websites, expecting absolutely nothing in return, a “slot” suddenly appeared.

 This unexpected gift of medical fairy dust did not entirely erase the cynicism of knowing that people were jumping the line, pushing those who actually “qualified” to the back if not trampling them altogether; yet it did imbue a teensy bit of optimism. Then I learned it was set for the day that would bring our first huge blizzard of the season- so much for the “luck” of finding a way to get the potion into my arm. . . .

 In the darkest hour of the night before, as I fitfully tried to sleep amid the scraping and grinding of an army of monster plows outside the window, I was determined to see it through. At 7:30 a.m. I got in touch with a member of a self described “skeleton crew” at the vaccination site, and she urged me to come on down.

 I was off to see the wizard! Snow was accumulating fast under a freezing, gray sky, but a rash act of cancellation could mean waiting months. So I skipped the shower, pulled on the Uggs, grabbed the snow shovel, and found my car in the process of being quietly buried. The winds were fierce and icy and those ear splitting, grinding noises notwithstanding, most of the main roads still were not visibly plowed. The vax center was not local but on the other side of town, thirty minutes away on a good day. A radio voice euphemistically described the situation as “a scene from Currier and Ives.” Actually driving it was more like a death-defying dance on slippery surfaces caked with ice and snow at 15 mph.

In essence, I was willing to risk my life on treacherous roadways after a year of doing basically nothing but getting food into the house, incessant mask buying, compulsive hand washing, lots of intermittent worrying, a series of ill conceived baking episodes, and watching people begin to behave strangely.

 The GPS crapped out and refused to continue “talking” right before I arrived; a huge, snaking medical compound winding around several snow-blinded streets proved too complicated for its tiny computer- but eventually I found myself in one of the weirder though now familiar sci fi settings of modern medicine, a bit like a cheap Star Trek set.

The towering buildings all looked alike, but were mainly empty due to the storm. After locating the address, I was directed to the second floor by a lone front desk guy who did not bother looking up from his phone. When I got off the elevator there were no signs or numbers, but an exceptionally long cat walk overlooking a parallel, equally deserted lower level; there was lots of glass on both sides, an empty fitness room with dozens of workout machines, a dizzying row of deserted offices behind more glass partitions, and a seemingly endless walk to forever with no idea of where I was headed. It also appeared I was the only person there.

Had I actually died from the virus and now was in some sort of high tech limbo on my way to eternity?? Oh for the homey ministrations of Dr. Koulak! The kindly neighborhood physician of my youth who lived across the street and had shocks of wild, white hair, reassuring eyes, a caring, comforting voice and that little black bag full of medical goodies and other mysteries.

 Koulak would tap your knee to test the reflexes and make you jump with a start and a giggle, or kindly jab you in the tushy with antibiotics, as the situation required. He called my seasonal asthma “rose fever.” But it all transpired in a one on one, a continuum of concerned interaction to help you through the smaller and larger medical plagues of childhood. I’d had my share, from whooping cough to scarlet fever, chicken pox, measles, rubella and really bad ear infections. There was no internet, no mass media, polio was rampant and as it turned out I was allergic to penicillin. But for some reason, this cold walk through a sterile corridor to nowhere, in the confines of a large, newish, boxy, impersonal, shiny and multi-use building that seemed made of cardboard left me feeling as if I were stepping off the Earth's cliff into an alien galaxy.    

 At the end of the lonely trek I found a repurposed office that had been converted into a vaccination center; everything was spiffily clean, the staff was professional, impersonal, and a little harried. It was not crowded and I got my shot.

 Now I have an appointment to return for the coveted second dose, an occasion that should warrant cartwheels at the prospect of all that protective, germ killing serum beating back those vile, nasty little coronas.

 And yet the whole process, from beginning to end, was revelatory and mostly not in a happy way. From the first inkling of mass casualties to friends and family revealing their own phobias, fears, extreme self protectiveness and distancing maneuvers, and neighbors or strangers blithely stepping over others to obtain the vaccine, or shoppers hording all sorts of basic goods, to the vendors who gouged on medical and food supplies, the suburbanites who vowed they “would not leave the driveway” and of course the horrible realization that no one was home or in charge at the government, there often was that disquieting feeling that it really was every (woe)man for him/herself. . . .

 This dim reminder of human weakness is enough to seriously deplete your sense of humor- before remembering that is, that this is all we really have to get us through.

 Seen any good sitcoms lately?