Vaccination, In 6 Parts

Until the pandemic struck, I had presumed there were but three advantages to being over the age of 75: no more colonoscopies, no more jury duty, no more … I forget what.

Then along came Covid-19, and ageism was stood on its head. My generation was in line to be saved, at least figuratively, as we comprise around 80 percent of all deaths from the novel infection. The actual experience of vaccination provided a few lessons and indelible memories.

1. Fast on Your Fingers. In the beginning, the Yale New Haven Health system, usually on the medical cutting edge, seemed to have lost its way. It listed a few places online where appointments could be had.

There was a 6:40 p.m. opening in Greenwich.

Greenwich?

And a 5:40 p.m. slot in New London.

New London?

Moreover, each patient would have to sign up individually. This meant that only I, not my wife Suzanne, would be served. She’d be on her own.

Even so, these inconvenient opportunities disappeared in a flash of ​“Not Available” results. I thought of the stereotype (mostly apt) of my generation – not the most technologically savvy bunch on earth.

I called the YNHH help line, and a pleasant woman told me that she understood the difficulty, and was sorry, but at that point no word had come down about the radical idea of making vaccinations available inside our city’s limits.

2. Our Care Givers Care. These are praiseworthy people, almost without exception. One advantage I have had over three-quarters of a century is to learn firsthand how devoted and competent, even angelic, they are. However, there are moments when an old fellow might shake his head with incredulity. As we awaited news of Covid-19 vaccinations, I took the opportunity to get a shingles shot at the local pharmacy. The pharmacist proved herself excellent at needle work. As she was doing her thing, I told her about the first shot in the arm I remember, in 1954, for the Salk Polio Vaccine.

“The what?”

I said, ​“Jonas Salk.”

She said, ​“Never heard of him.”

3. Operation Warp Sluggish. The Internet encouraged those eligible for vaccinations to enroll in VAMS, whose very name (Vaccination Administration Management System) might indicate a hint of bureaucracy.

Both Suzanne and I did this, but were unable to access any information, or even log in after enrolling. Meanwhile, we learned that friends and family members had come down with Covid-19, heightening our anxiety.

All of these people recovered, but some had significant symptoms. What if my aging body had significant symptoms? The lungs that had already suffered pneumonia? The heart that has a sticky valve, etc.?

4. The Pop-Up. Suzanne was getting her hair cut when I texted her the news that my habit of persistently checking digital rabbit holes had paid off. YNHH had opened appointments in this very hemisphere, specifically at the Lanman Center at Yale. (And other neighborhood sites for vaccinations were announced in the city.)

I snapped up two slots for Friday evening, Jan. 22.

When we arrived, the guard at the lot told us that the parking lot was not the place to park, and directed us around the building. Once we found the secondary spaces and came to the door, we noticed a total reverse in atmosphere. The anxiety we had felt to that moment dissipated in a blanket of warmth and welcome.

We learned that every staff person had volunteered – none of them paid at that point – but they couldn’t have been more understanding and helpful.

After the shot – the first dose of the Pfizer vaccine – we were obliged to sit in the area where a nurse would check whether any of us suffered an adverse reaction. The group around us, about dozen in all, seemed to be of an age when we could have held an impromptu seminar on Jackie Robinson or Liberace.

Our nurse was Margaret, a name, she explained, not to be confused with other members of her family – Maggie, Peggy, Margie, etc. She asked me if I felt any immediate side effects.

I resisted my impulse to say, ​“The only one I’ve noticed is that I can suddenly speak Norwegian.” I said, instead, ​“I feel teary.”

Indeed, almost all of us sitting in that section had felt unexpected emotion. The exception was a fellow sitting in front of me who, when asked how he was, responded in one word, ​“Fine.” Just like a man.

Five. Almost finished.

An administrator named Kate wheeled her computer around the room to sign us up for our next appointments, three weeks hence. This sure beat endless online searches for appointments, and so all seemed in order, and would have been if not for a balky GPS and my own sense of panic.

On Feb. 12, my digital device took us to a dead end on the way to the Lanman Center, which isn’t the easiest place to find in a pitch black night. Suzanne was in the driver’s seat, which was a good thing, because in my state, convinced we’d miss our appointment, I would have followed through on my favorite hobby when stressed: changing direction and backing into every tree in Connecticut.

Fortunately, two Yale students – from their accents appearing to be from the UK – patiently advised us on how to outwit the GPS.

Except that that there was one more twist. When we arrived at the parking lot that we’d used the first time, we saw that it was no longer the entrance but the exit. Hence, a final ​“sprint” was in order.

Six. Ciao. Once inside, we again felt the sense of calm – a tribute to the professionals working the night shift.

Within two or three minutes, Suzanne and I were assigned to our nurses. Mine was Robin, who was a joy to talk with. As is my habit, I inquired about every matter in her life story, and discovered she has a son named Luca. I told her that we had just adopted a puppy with the same name, excepted spelled Lucca, after the city in Italy.

This led to a very brief conversation in Italian, and the thought that some accidents of life are just meant to be.

Afterwards as we sat in the recovery space (no significant side effects again, except that I suddenly lost my ability to speak Norwegian), and another tear dropped down my cheek.