Cocktails & Vaccine Dreams

The world is on the other side of that door.

Shot #1

It was a last minute opportunity. A text from a friend. An open appointment. After months of wondering when, I am getting my first vaccine shot. It is 30 miles exactly down the highway to RIMAC Arena where the vaccination station is set up on the UCSD campus.

The drive is quick. It is early. No traffic yet. Early morning haze is already burning away, but the sun isn’t up yet. I chose the earliest appointment thinking there might be less people. I was apprehensive to come here. I haven’t been within a social distance of more than three people (one of whom is my wife) more than a half dozen times in over a year.

Those early attempts at in-person grocery shopping gave me anxiety, and sometimes I found myself sitting for far too long in the parking lot trying to shake off the anger and frustration. It was easier, and a privilege I was able to take advantage of, that we were able to transition entirely to delivery for any of our basic needs. Beyond that…we weren’t going out, and our families live 3000 miles away. Our Covid-pod has been two.

So, I was apprehensive. The UC-SD Rimac vaccination location is big. Much bigger than my local clinic. It is in an arena for god’s sake, but the alternative, not getting the shot, seems worse.

There are about 100 people in front of me slowly moving through a social-distanced line set up like we are in line at the airport, or waiting to get into a football game. I am calm. Too calm. It feels like we should all be high-fiving! Or air-fiving, at least.

I smile at the woman closest to me, but she can’t see it through my N-95 and the clothe mask I’m wearing over that. She can’t even see the lines that crinkle next to my eyes. They’re covered by my sunglasses, and the stocking cap I’ve pulled on to prevent my shaved bald head from becoming an appealing landing pad for the coronavirus.

I still nod, and comment on the shockingly respectful, yet large group of people gathering behind us. She laughs, and the queue begins shuffle. Someone in front moves six feet. Then someone else. Then some else, and so it goes.

Everyone here is wearing a mask. I don’t hear anyone complaining about their rights, or how annoying masks are, or how the government shouldn’t be able to force them to wear one. I don’t even hear anyone telling someone to pull their mask up over their nose, because somehow every person here already knows how to wear a mask. Where have you all been? Why hasn’t every grocery store line been like this from day one?

The check-in volunteers are fantastic. Things move efficiently. 10 minutes after arriving, I’m already next in line for the vaccine room. I can see into the room, and hear the buzz of activity for about 30 seconds before they wave me in. I take a deep breath, and try to prepare myself. No such luck.

It’s like stepping into a beehive. Card tables fill the room. A jabber, a tracker and a patient are at every table. Volunteers roam making sure everyone has what they need, and the jabbee’s like me find the right table. Mine is table #08.

The nurse says, “You’ve really been social-distancing, haven’t you? I can always tell who has.” It must be my deer in headlights look, I think.

“How long have you been working here? Doing vaccines?” I ask.

“Three days,” she replies. She says it like it has been a year. “You can always tell,” she says.

They ask my name. Check my docs. Log me in. Ask me, “Left or right?” All of a sudden it’s over.

Intermission

I’m in the car before it really dawns on me what I’ve done. I’m participating in one helluva science experiment. The end result of which, I hope will mean life will return to some sort of normalcy. I doubt it, but I can hope. At home, I kiss my wife. She’s proud of me for going out in public. I think she is.

She is already on the other side. Vaxxed, and ready for me to join her. Ready for me to understand how she feels safer out there interacting, and how I should stop panicking every time she goes for a run. I want to be there too. I open my laptop, and click through my work e-mails. I have a meeting to go to in a few minutes.

I don’t have any side effects from shot one. Not even a sore arm. The rest of my family has all gotten their second without much drama. We have the same genetics so I’m hopeful that the dreaded second shot will be kind to me. My wife wasn’t so lucky. She spent a day in bed, and called in sick to work for the first time in half a decade.

My follow-up is scheduled three weeks later to the day. Same place. Same time. It has only recently dawned on me how much a second shot might open up my life. It hasn’t been lonely, but it has been very small. A second shot could mean coffee at the beach or cafe, a camping trip with vaccinated friends, or a visit home.

It has been nearly two years since I’ve seen my Dad in real life. We usually get to see each other about twice a year. His visit was canceled at the beginning of Covid—eight months after our last visit. It has been hard. Hard to stay connected. Hard because of our differing views on the world, and just…just fucking hard. I miss all my family, but it has been the longest since I’ve seen him.

Shot #2

I’m too keyed up to sleep. Some combination of adrenaline and Brooklyn-99 keep me up. It is 3:35 AM. Then it is 4:40 AM. Then it is 5:30 AM. I decide to shower. I should be clean. Just in case this all goes south somehow, I think.

I have toast. I make a coffee. I collect all my necessary papers. I don’t check them, I’m confident I set everything by the door the night before.

It is too early, but I leave anyway. I figure watching the sun come up on my way down to RIMAC is better than just waiting on the couch. The nearly full moon is still in the sky.

I’m about 15 minutes down the high way when I feel the panic coming on. Where is my wallet? I flail with one hand on the wheel. I find it in my pocket. I’m relieved, but something feels wrong. There is no oversized vaccine card in it.

F#$K!

I shout it. I find the next exit, and turn around. I look at the clock. I had left so early I’ll make it home, and back and still be on time.

I go home. The card is still on the refrigerator. I get back on the road. I park. I get in line. I’m still thirty minutes early. The doors haven’t even’t opened yet. A woman comes out, and makes an announcement. We’re all here for the second shot. We’re all here for the same brand of vaccine.

“This is a great day!” she says.

I repeat the same process from before. I go through the line. I check in. I’m at the door to the beehive again.

I sit down at the table. Michelle is the jabber. Jacques logs me in. Just like before, it all happens so fast.

“Thank you! Thank you for doing this work!” I say.

They nod. They’re already prepping for the next patient. I grab my hoodie, and head for the waiting area. Someone has hung up a “Congratulations!” banner over the door.

I make my way towards the same chair, in the same corner, that I waited the 15 minutes in three weeks before. This is the RIMAC gymnasia. It’s a big open room with the doors open, and folding chairs set up in rows. Music is playing out of big portable speakers. It’s easy to imagine a graduation ceremony or a rec league basketball game taking place here.

I start laugh uncontrollably as I make my way through the room. It’s quiet, and I don’t really know why.

Is this it? Is it over? I wonder. Less than an hour has passed since I left home (the second time). Less than two minutes have passed since I was sitting at the table before getting the second shot. I start to tear up, but I don’t cry.

“All done.” I text.

I feel…overwhelmed? Numb? Underwhelmed? Euphoric? Why isn’t the school band playing?

I feel everything.

I tear up some more, but still don’t really cry. My time passes, and I think about how this changes things. I drive home. The sun is up, and my playlist blasting late ‘90’s R&B jams. Life is good.

The Aftermath

After the shot, I had a full work day. I was tired, but I didn’t feel sick. I had that fuzzy, warm feeling behind my eyes that comes from not enough sleep, or an on-coming cold. I still felt well enough to take a walk in the afternoon.

About 12 hours after the shot the second vaccine decided to let me know it was working. I lost the ability to regulate my temperature. My entire body ached. I started sweating, and then I would get the chills. After we went to bed, the headache started.

Truthfully, calling it a headache feels like I’m shorting it. It felt like a hurricane of hammers in my brain. The times it was throbbing were worse than when it was constant. The brief pulse of relief was enough to make me hope it was over, but it wasn’t.

I moved into the living room so I could fidget without waking my wife. Resting on my hands and knees with my head down seemed to be the only comfortable position. As the night got on, it got worse, and I had a terrible understanding of the kind of darkness that must come with chronic pain. I kept reminding myself, “This was always a possibility. It will be over tomorrow. There is an end in sight.”

It didn’t matter that I didn’t know that for certain. It was enough to get me through it. By late morning the headache had subsided, and I was left a disheveled, sweaty mess. I took another shower. That next day was rough. I worked with my computer on my belly as I laid on all the various flat surfaces in the apartment. I didn’t want to take the day off, because, well, I just started this job, and clickety-clackity on the computer keys is a lot easier than a lot of the jobs I’ve had in my life.

That night I was able to sleep, but my fever sweats came back. I’d wake up in a pool of sweat. My previously dry underclothes soaked through. Twice in the night I got up to towel off, and change into fresh jams. But I was able to sleep, and sleep well when I did. I didn’t dream. Not even a little.

36 hours after it began it was over. I was me again. I was me, but somehow different. I went on a walk, and the anxiety of passing maskless pedestrians felt muted. I seriously considered a social outing for the first time in more than a year. We made plans for a few weeks from now after the vaccine has really had a chance to take hold. And we started making plans to go home. Dates on the calendar. To see our family, to hug them—oh my god—to hug them will be…unbelievable.

This pandemic isn’t over. I’m not terribly optimistic about herd immunity, or avoiding a serious mutation of Covid-19 before we get there, but my life is different today. It is better. I feel better knowing I have this mRNA vaccine coursing through my body strengthening itself.

I hope you’ve already had the chance to get yours, to be part of this experience, to hug and hold your loved ones safely without so many fears. If you’re on the fence, for whatever reason, you still have a choice. It’s up to you, but I can tell you this: it is worth it. It is nice over here on this side. The kernels of fear I have had for myself and my wife, for being a spreader, for potentially contributing—even a little—to someone else’s risk have started to slowly subside to more reasonable levels.

I’m crying a little, as write this, just thinking about how happy I am to know that someday soon I’ll be able to see my Mom and my Dad and my Brothers and my In-Laws in real life. Up close. I’ll get to embrace them, and hold on for too long. That’s what the vaccine has given me. I hope it gives you something as poignant too.

Now who needs a drink?