Vaccination does not disappoint.
One of the tragic lessons of American life from the last year: you cannot be disappointed if you have low expectations from the outset. Anybody who expected that Americans would handle a pandemic capably and with a sense of stoicism has found themself to be extremely disappointed. Anybody who hoped they might find the good brand of toilet paper or dish soap at the store — or even that the cashier who helped them check out with the off-brand would be wearing a mask over their nose — has been disappointed. The same is true of most people who thought they might be able to collect unemployment insurance benefits in a timely way. The horrible truth is that we have no choice but to expect the bare minimum in most areas of public life or risk living in a constant state of disappointment.
This world of mediocrity and disappointment makes writing easy. It inspires me and, at the same time, requires very little creative treatment. I regret that my being impressed with (and also brain-fogged by) a recent vaccination means that I have nothing but positive things to write this week. Positivity is, frankly, boring. I am sorry.
Perhaps in the general spirit of steeling themselves against disappointment, many of the thousand-or-so people visiting the vaccine clinic for a mid-size municipality in Metro Detroit at which I volunteered on March 12 came prepared with the provisions they needed to sit in line for a long time and small mountains of paperwork to defend against whatever bureaucracy they might face. 30 minutes later, they were out the door again with a sore arm and a sense of… pride and delight?
Anybody expecting a long line or bureaucratic nightmare was, for once, pleasantly surprised. The line to get in moved fast — it was never more than a few people long. I, wearing a stylish neon yellow vest, was part of the team that greeted people as they arrived inside, ticking their names off a list. Some would offer photo ID or apologize for not having a printed confirmation form, neither of which mattered. Some people could not believe their day had finally arrived and seemed to be bracing for somebody to turn them away, but the great public health machine took them in anyway.
The process was lightning fast. We, the yellow-vested list checkers, sent people to blue vests with registration forms. From there, the red tape on the floor ushered people to another line. The line split into smaller lines, nurses asked people to choose an arm, and that was that.
The mood at a vaccine clinic is strange. It is the quietest miracle I have ever witnessed. The occasion would, under other circumstances, warrant a ticker tape parade and loud marching bands playing Sousa. Instead, it is composed entirely of people standing in fast-moving lines and speaking in hushed tones, which seems subdued for the greatest medical and logistical wonder of our time.
At the end of our shift in yellow vests, there were extra doses on hand and we had the pleasure of following the red tape on the floor ourselves. One of the other volunteers played Motown music on his phone to bring the mood up in the line ahead of the vaccine room.
Room B. Line 7. Wait while the attendant sanitizes the chair. Unhinge your shoulder from its socket to wriggle it out of your long-sleeved shirt because you refuse to wear short sleeves in public despite all pre-vaccine guidance to the contrary.
In her regular life, my nurse worked at a long-term care facility in Ann Arbor, but had found a side gig in vaccine centers and traveled around the region vaccinating people for a few days out of every week. She did an excellent, painless job.
This is another part of the miracle. Very few people work full-time as vaccinators. The people staffing vaccine centers come from other medical jobs, emergency and event management, and all other walks of life. They have put other parts of their lives on hold to end the pandemic.
I returned last Friday — the day after Tigers opening day and two days before Easter — for my second dose, and was admitted based solely on my half-completed CDC vaccine card. I was given a form to fill out in a line that moved so quickly that I found myself at the front before I could even write my full name. I was pleased to discover that somebody had scratched out the insurance section at the bottom before they made the copies (perhaps this is what it’s like to be British?).
One of the vaccination rooms was staffed by National Guardsmen in their fatigues, but I wound up with a nurse from a local children’s hospital, which, when it comes to needles, is more my speed. She was, by choice, spending her day off on assignment with the State Health Department, vaccinating me in a community college classroom. Again, painless.
After fifteen minutes of sitting in another classroom for observation, the whole affair was finished. All told, it took half an hour. It was a non-event.
Within 72 hours, five percent of the nation’s adult population was also vaccinated. For me and a few million other Americans, that meant a weekend with a delightful — if not familiar — sense of un-disappointment.
Distractions
Things I have been reading, watching, and listening to this week.
In 1990, a man called John Daker sang “Christ the Lord Is Risen Today” for a public access television program in Peoria, Illinois. Every (non-pandemic) year since, my family has melted down in church when we sing the hymn on Easter Sunday. All it takes is one of us singing “ts your voicean triumphs foiii” and we all have to spend the rest of the hymn stifling our laughter. Please join us in celebrating this wonderful Easter tradition.
The March 8 newsletter decried an Amtrak executive as a “mediocre airline executive and all-American Richard Beeching wannabe.” I have never been so happy to eat my words as when Amtrak released this week a map of proposed service changes for the next decade. For Michigan, that means “enhanced services” on all three routes, a new line to Toronto, and a connection between Toledo and Detroit, saving hours on trips to the east coast. It still requires support from Congress, so I am not holding my breath, but a man can dream!