So…this whole “vaccine” thing, amiright? Ay yi yi…on the one hand, thanks to my employer, I was super-lucky to be able to receive my doses near the beginning of all the nonsense. But then I watched with growing anxiety as the rollout seemed to vary wildly in terms of how smoothly and quickly people were able to get appointments. Meanwhile I heard horror stories of outrageous hold times on the phone, automated online scheduling portals crashing, promised supplies not being delivered to some facilities, or in other places shots being wasted when not enough people showed up to use them. In short: an abundance of CHAOS.
Besides, in the shaky early stages, it felt like NC kept reassigning the eligibility groups on a whim, so we couldn’t be sure where the Male Trio fell on the scale from one day to the next without rechecking the requirements. I’m telling ya, it was very stressful for a while there, y’all!
However, after the (blessed) change of administration (hallelujah!) it appeared that some of the kinks got ironed out…causing the process to speed up considerably. I mean, first they started adding more folks to the “come and get it” queue weekly. Then suddenly our governor proclaimed that EVERYONE would be welcome on April 7th, which honestly was months before we’d previously dared to hope.
Obviously this was thrilling news…but it also led directly to the next set of issues—such as how, exactly, one might obtain one of the marvelous anti-COVID injections. Now, Husband was in charge of his own destiny, if you will; as the only other adult in the house, and also the only one who can keep track of his crazy job demands, I figured it’d be best if he chose a convenient day and time for himself. College kid will have to delay until he returns at the end of the semester (less than a month away now at this point anyway, so NBD). That left the 12th grade teenager for me to manage. Pfft, piece o’cake, yeah?
Hahahahahahaha…not so much. You see, due to his tender age (that would be “under 18”), we couldn’t utilize a website, but rather had to go all old school and whatnot, and CALL to inquire about getting him a jab in the arm. (Seriously? Does that seem absurdly antiquated to anyone else? Harrumph…) However, my first attempt resulted in one of those dreaded electronic voices warning me that they were “experiencing unusually high volume”…and that there were “at least 50 customers ahead of me”. Um…that would be a h…eck no from this impatient chica.
Resigning myself to the fact that there was probably an overwhelming amount of interest and enthusiasm for getting in line once the floodgates were opened, I let it go for a couple of days. Until a random Twitter post—of all things—caught my eye. It listed a “COVID vaccine assistance” number, which to me just screamed “contact us right now and we’ll book you a date with a needle!” (Just a second…that sounds vaguely sinister, doesn’t it? Eh, you know what I’m trying to say…)
It turned out that the pleasant lady I spoke to wasn’t granted the power to actually schedule anything…siiighhh. All she could do was identify a couple of providers in my area; then it would be up to me to give them a jingle and beg for a slot. Well, I didn’t seem to have any other viable options, so I went for the first one on the list, which happened to be Walgreens. (Yeeeahhh…I’ve since been privy to tales of how…messed up…their particular system is, but at the time I didn’t know any of this, and thus was bubbling over with wide-eyed innocence and optimism…silly me…)
It’s important to note for what ensues that I NEVER conversed with a live human, only an electronic substitute. So I shouldn’t have been surprised, really, that things got tricky right off the bat. When asked if we had a linked account, I responded in the affirmative…but I’m not the one who requires an appointment—you understand how this is already headed straight downhill? Nevertheless, I supplied my number…but the son’s birthdate…naively assuming that this would trigger the computer to spit out the correct information.
And whattya know, it immediately offered me a possibility…for the following morning! I was…beside myself with glee, and accepted it without a second thought. (Cue the alarm bells…right about NOW…) Sure, it was about 30 minutes away, but Riley and I agreed that this was a small price to pay, especially since it would be a Saturday, and we had nothing more urgent on the agenda at 9 a.m.
So, off we went the next day…into the deepest depths of Durham. I’m not kidding, I’ve never seen this section, and wouldn’t be able to find my way back without using the GPS again. But, no worries, we arrived at our arranged time and waited behind a few other folks for the pharmacist’s attention. During that lull, however, I overheard something troubling. While giving instructions to a co-worker, the doc mentioned the J&J and Moderna serums…leaving out Pfizer…incidentally the ONLY one approved for (you guessed it) adolescents aged 16-18. (Aaaarrrghhhhh!)
With a sinking sensation in my stomach, I approached the plexiglass safety barrier to confirm this with her. Moments later it was clear that, sure enough, the %$#@ robot had sent us on a wild goose chase through the uncharted waters (streets, whatever) of the adjacent town to a site that carried everything EXCEPT what we needed. To her infinite credit though, (perhaps in response to the combed despair and desperation she read on my face?) she rallied quickly and scribbled the address of yet another location a mile or so away, where they do stock the P-version we sought, and she earnestly promised that “Eric would take care of us”.
This fiasco had really taken on the tinge of a quest by this point, so we loaded back into our coach (um, “Forester”), updated the navigator (“Google Maps”), and wound our way through more completely unfamiliar villages (“neighborhoods”), until we stumbled upon ye olde apothecary. There we joined those already assembled in an orderly, socially distanced fashion…and crossed our fingers that we’d be met with success when we finished storming the castle (“relaying our tale of woe to the hopefully sympathetic and accommodating Walgreen-ian subject behind the counter”).
Hip, hip hooray, for the first time all day we caught a break! She didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed by our dilemma, simply instructing us to finish filling out the form we’d acquired from the first store….and take a seat until it was our turn. Given my short attention span and low tolerance for boredom, I left Riley to keep the chair warm while I wandered the aisles (especially the leftover, discounted Easter candy…what? We totally deserved a treat after all this trauma, don’t you think?)
In less than 10 minutes Riley summoned me with a stage-whispered, “Hey, Mom!” Just like that, he was done. No fanfare, no final burst of drama, only…a plain bandage to show that he’d been the proud recipient of his first #FauciOuchie. (C’mon, you knew I couldn’t resist throwing that in before the end of my rambling, right?) Feeling downright relieved/ecstatic/proud of ourselves for not giving up on the dang mission, we bid the Bull City farewell-for-now and chugged back to Chapel Hill.
It wasn’t even lunchtime yet, and quite a triumphant kickoff to the weekend, if you ask me. But then, to add to the Win column, Husband announced that he was able to secure his own date with a syringe that very afternoon, through UNC’s large vaccination site nearby. Thus both of the local WestEnders guys are on their way to full immunity. Yay, science! Whoo hoo, modern medicine! And take that, sneaky vicious deadly virus!
Anyway, stay tuned for the Second Crusade Against Corona, coming at ya in 3-4 weeks. Plenty of time to plot a course for the once-visited Walgreens of Holloway, where the valiant Sir Riley must return for a final treatment. Until then, when out in the world it’s still virtual hugs, air high-fives, smiling behind the masks, washing and sanitizing the hands, and staying 6 feet apart. But hang in there, fam, we’re getting closer to “normal”! Now where did I hide those chocolate bunnies? (Hey, “perfectly acceptable coping mechanism”—don’t judge!)
Extra Innings 