The Shot

February 8, 2021

“I found an appointment in Columbia,” the young woman on the other end of the line said.

“I’m in Greenville. Columbia is two hours away,” I answered. “Can I get it here?”

“Oh. I don’t know where Columbia is,” she said.

“Where are you?” I asked, surprised. I thought I was talking with a local person.

“I’m in Texas, but we’re not supposed to say where,” she replied.

She was friendly and vivacious, she was with the Vaccine Administration Management System (VAMS). When I said I was 71 and eligible to get the covid-19 vaccine here in South Carolina, she answered lightheartedly that she was 32.

I said thanks and goodbye.  I had grazed the internet looking for appointments here in town or just outside town, all sites reporting “no appointments available.” The South Carolina Department of Health and Environmental Control, or SCDHEC, the vaccine mastermind for the state, sent me to the CDC website. I filled out an online form that connected me to the VAMS.  

Last week a nurse told us about a walk-in site, an abandoned K-Mart six miles away. We hustled over there. A block-long line of oldsters stood in the chill, kludged together as if waiting to get movie tickets. Most wore masks, not all. We walked to the end, edging away from others. Ten minutes later someone announced the site was out of vaccine. A worker said I could stay and make an appointment. The wait was two hours. We left.

The next day I tried the Prisma Health website. It identified me in an “authorized” population. It sailed me to another site, and within minutes I had an appointment for 7 AM at the K-Mart. I patted myself on the back. The family doctor wrote a letter for Sandy attesting that, although not 70, she’s a caregiver, in the hope that would rope her in.

Recalling the scary crowd scene, we showed up Thursday at the K-Mart just before 6 AM. It was drizzly, cold, and raw, luckily the sidewalk along the building was out of the rain. Uniformed security guards were setting up a barrier dividing those with appointments from the walk-in hopefuls. I stepped up to the locked doors and created the line, hunching my shoulders against the chill, for the hourlong wait. Others fell in behind me. Sandy showed her letter to an official. He went inside to relay her pitch.

We stood, as if frozen in place. The minutes ticked by. A few retirees came forward, announced their appointments, expecting to be ushered in. The guard gestured at the block-long line. Folks behind me pressed forward. I took a few uneasy steps. They chatted about the runaround in finding appointments, of calling here, calling there. Standing in a chilly line with strangers, what do you talk about? I said nothing, but stared, shivering, at the rain and the dark wet parking lot. A few minutes before seven someone came out and apologized to Sandy. The vaccine bosses had turned her down. She’d have to wait for her shot at least until Monday, today, when the SCDHEC opened eligibility to 65-year-olds. She said OK.

Someone else came out and checked our temperatures with one of those forehead thermometers and shouted questions down the line: Anyone feeling sick? Anyone already had covid-19? Who has an appointment? Who doesn’t?

I gripped my cellphone showing my appointment email as they let us in. “Those with appointments turn left, all others turn right,” a guard yelled. I turned into a maze formed by a rope fence. I hiked up, then down then up then down, then faced two friendly young women at desks. They squinted at my driver’s license, checked their computer, and waved me through. A guard sent me to another desk. A nurse offered me a seat and a form to complete. She quizzed me. “How are you feeling? “Any allergies or medical conditions?” I mentioned the radiation sessions, six down, 21 to go. “I work at the Cancer Institute,” she said with a smile.

She glanced at my form and gave me the vaccine briefing. I was surprised at the detail about possible side effects of the first shot:  your arm will ache, Tylenol or Ibuprofen would be OK, she said. It’s the second shot that can knock you out.

I took off my sweater. She grabbed a syringe, daubed a spot on my shoulder, and it was over. No sensation. She stuck a band-aid on the spot and pointed to the end of the building. “Sit there for 15 minutes, you can make your second-shot appointment.” I thanked her and moved on. Sandy met me at a field of a hundred or so chairs, set up six feet apart. “I got my appointment. Next Tuesday,” she said. The letter had not helped, but she was relieved.

I turned and looked back. The crowd was inching through the rope maze. A few people sat for their ID checks, a few more for the interview and shot. Maybe a half-dozen were seated behind me in the recovery ward.

I told myself this is the best it gets. South Carolina had an average of 3,500 new cases daily last week, most per capita in the country. I took a bottle of water and we grabbed our coats. Outside, the line stretched for a city block, the retirees crowded together.

Millions are spending countless hours surfing the internet or clutching their phones, waiting on hold, seeking vaccine appointments. I got lucky. Once through the door, I sailed through. The volunteers were friendly and helpful, they work long hours, surely at some risk. They showed how Americans know how to step up, as the country battles the nightmare.

 I wondered: why give priority to seniors, mostly retired, who can wait safely at home for a few more months? The vulnerable ones are the people on the front lines of the economy, the bus drivers, the grocery clerks, teachers, restaurant workers, the people likely living paycheck to paycheck, and those with no paycheck. Take care of them first.

Well. I let off steam. I adjusted my mask, we headed for the van. We’ll be back Tuesday. Hope the weather’s better.