2/19/2021
Today I had the privilege of receiving my second
dose of the COVID-19 vaccine. As such, I arrived at Lincoln’s Pinnacle Bank
Arena masked up, cheerful, and a little overwhelmed. I’m not used to being in
big groups of people anymore. Being an immune-suppressed person living through
a pandemic has changed both how I live and who I am.
Short lines, long lines. Organization and
disorganization. “Moderna or Pfizer?” again and again. Checklists on sanitized
clipboards. A flash of cold on my deltoid, and a poke, and then a band-aid. My
vaccination card--who knew a tiny piece of paper could be so precious?--handed
back to me.
During my post-vaccine wait time, I sat on a
metal chair in the back, the seat nearest the windows. My fifteen minutes
passed. I stood and walked through the rows of chairs, eyes straight ahead. In
the before times, I used to make eye contact with others. I used to smile and
make small talk. I don’t do that these days. I was aware of how very alone I
felt, even amongst so many people.
Someone caught the sleeve of my coat. I
admittedly flinched and jerked back, on instinct. Because we don’t touch each
other anymore, you see.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said an old man in a dark green
jacket. His scant hair was as white as the N-95 mask strapped across his face.
“Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s okay.” My hyperactivated body said it
wasn’t, but my heart said it was. His brown eyes, all I could see on his face,
were kind.
“I just wanted to tell you—you look so much like
my wife.”
“Oh.” I paused. In the before times, I would’ve instinctively
known how to be, how to act. How to make this person feel comfortable, even
though he was the one to reach out to me. That’s just what I do.
Did. That’s what I did, before.
“Thank you,” I finally went with.
“She had big brown eyes and dark hair, like
yours. I know I can’t see the rest of you—the damn masks—but you are like her. A
beauty.”
“That’s very kind of you to say.”
Here, his eyes crinkled. Not a happy crinkle.
“She died last year.”
And my own eyes must have given something
away—did they dart back to the shot clinic?
“Oh, no, it wasn’t the virus. It was just her
time. We’re old,” he said.
“I’m sorry about your wife,” I said. “You must
miss her.”
“I do.” He shifted in his seat, pulling his
baggy pant legs down further on his thin legs. “Anyway, I just couldn’t let you
go without saying hello.”
“Well, hello,” I said, smiling under my mask. I
might have reached out to shake his hand, if we did those things now.
“You have a good day, miss.”
And I opened my mouth to say, “you too,” but he
wasn’t finished. And I’m glad he wasn’t finished.
“I hope you get to grow old, like my wife did.
Maybe this shot will help you.”
It’s funny—when I think about times I’ve been
very moved, I think about hour-long client sessions, entire books, meaningful
conversations with friends. And now, I will always think about how these two
sentences managed to melt my heart, one so long frozen with fear and
isolation.
For nearly a year, I’ve felt like I’ve been
fighting for my right to live. As I’ve watched many people around me making no
adjustments to their daily lives, I realized they didn’t care whether I lived
or got sick or died—or, they may say they did, but were unwilling to make the
sacrifices that backed up that statement. I’ve
stopped feeling like other humans are inherently good. I’m not the self I was
in the before, the self who believed in the power of others and who thought
love would always, always win. I’ll probably never be her again.
And yet, when the stranger said to me, “I
hope you live,” I cracked a little, and felt some of my old self seeping in
through those jagged breaks. There was something special, something transformative,
about this other human saying in real time, right to my face: I want life
for you.
Maybe I’ll never be as hopeful or as willing to
count on others as I was in the before. But maybe, also, there is still
goodness in the world.
With tears in my eyes I said, “Thank you. You
have no idea how much that means to me,” and me and the man said our goodbyes.
I showed up today for a COVID-19 vaccination, a
serum that will reprogram my immune system to act differently in the face of
the virus.
And I left with a different kind of
instillation. Love and restored belief in serendipity and the most powerful,
the most dangerous of the things, hope – those flow in my veins now,
too.
I wonder which shot will help me more.
