During the noon hour on Wednesday this week, my husband and I pull up to the drive-through cue in a small town in eastern Washington. Don rolls down the window and rests his t-shirted arm on the car’s window ledge. I am mortified to hear him order a double cheeseburger and french fries. I quickly apologize for my husband’s adolescent sense of humor. The attendant, a burly, 30-something year old man, merely grins and motions for Don to extend his arm.
We are not at a fast-food restaurant; we are getting our first Moderna COVID vaccine.
Afterwards we park in the lot outside the fire station for the mandated 15-minute reaction observation period. We listen to a short lecture from a volunteer about using Tylenol for expected side effects and confirm our follow-up appointments. We are released with inoculation certificates and a cheery admonishment to drive safely.
Euphoria and relief at getting the vaccination is tempered by guilt. Public demand for immunizations far exceeds supply. When the state of Washington launched its website, findyourphaseWA.com a month ago, securing an appointment was as likely as being the first caller to a radio show offering free Super Bowl tickets. My initial goal was to get the vaccine; it was quickly substituted by the ancillary objective to secure a wait list spot.
Family and friends assured me that I was entitled to be vaccinated. Don and I waited out the state hierarchy tiers until we qualified. I barely eked my way into Phase 1B Tier 1 – those 65 years of age and older, which my not-yet-65-year-old friends good naturedly teased me about. But age group aside, the rational part of my brain felt that I deserved the vaccination. My law practice is an essential business, and as managing member, I am the most essential worker. I have gone to the office every business day since the governor-mandated shut down began. In March 2020, when the stay-at-home order was issued, I was terrified to drive the highways, certain that I would be pulled over and cited for civil disobedience. But someone had to come to the office or our clients’ rights would be compromised. A core group of us donned masks, socially distanced, and carried out imperative tasks that could not be completed remotely. We continue to do that today.
I understand that I met eligibility requirements, but I am humbled and grateful to be vaccinated. Unlike some people, I had the technology skills and internet access that drove my relentless search for an appointment. I am privileged to have a job that allows me to take a day off on 24 hours’ notice. My husband and I had reliable transportation, and accommodating winter weather, for the eight-hour round trip drive. We had the support of family members for dog duty when a traffic delay hindered our trip home. Most importantly, we had access to reliable information about the safety and efficacy of the vaccine.
Just because you qualify for something does not necessarily mean that you feel entitled to acquire it. It is a unique privilege to live in a country with the financial resources to develop vaccines in historic, record-setting fashion. I am the beneficiary of scientific researchers, medical experts, dedicated volunteers, and delivery persons whose commitment and hard work culminated in me taking the first crucial step towards the lifestyle that I reluctantly relinquished almost a year ago.
We left two boxes of bakery cookies at the fire station upon our departure, an insufficient and inadequate display of gratitude. But other than my profound and almost tearful thank you, it was my best shot at showing my appreciation.