My COVID Vaccine Side-Effects.

Last Friday I got my first shot of the Pfizer COVID-19 vaccine.

One of the side-effects that hasn’t been spoken of, is guilt. When I found out I was eligible for the vaccine, I immediately worked to verify if that was in fact the case. I made phone calls to hospitals and colleagues, talked with friends, each affirming that “yes” I was eligible. But for some reason it just didn’t seem right to me, surely there were people more deserving than me that should be ahead of me in the line? How was I eligible?!

“You have to trust that the state is distributing the vaccine in a way that is best for everyone, as a way to mitigate its effects,” a friend told me. “If you’re eligible, you’re eligible,” another said. “TAKE IT!” exclaimed my family, resoundingly. 

So last Saturday, I took the most passive route I could and placed myself on a waitlist that randomly generates your order in the line. Knowing that there are vaccine shortages and appointments are scarce, I expected to be contacted sometime in mid-February to schedule an appointment for later that month or early in March.

On Wednesday I received the email. “Please schedule your vaccine appointment.”

Wait… already?!

Well, that was fast.

Ugh.

Just a side note, I had no fear of the vaccine. From conversations with a friend who is involved in the vaccine research to family members in the health field who have already received their first and second doses of the Moderna or Pfizer vaccine, there was nothing that frightened me about the vaccine or gave me pause. I simply felt guilty for being selected and so quickly.

I clicked the link, fully expecting appointment availability to be scarce only to find that Friday was wide-open with availability. Surely if there was a shortage or scarcity, there wouldn’t be this much availability and so quickly, right? That helped to alleviate some of my guilt—not all of it.

I was told to expect a 30-45m minute appointment, and showed up on Friday afternoon to the vaccination site to find a line out the door and down the block. Men and women over the age of 65, some being helped along by their children to get in the line. It was a cold, wintry day and the line wasn’t moving quickly at all. I texted Tracy to let her know that I’d probably be a few hours, far longer than I expected.

The guilt washed back over me. Why am I here?

I stood in line reading over and editing my sermon for Sunday on my phone, a sermon that I would be videoing that afternoon (I’m still not used to videoing sermons after 11 months!) Hoping that this would take my mind off of things, I couldn’t help but regularly look at my car sitting across the street—seriously, I got a really good parking spot for this—and wondering whether or not I should just get in and go home sans-vaccine. Not out of frustration with the line, or the system or the process, rather because of the guilt that continued to eat away at me. I knew Tracy would understand, Elliot would be mad, and I would… I don’t know how I’d feel.

“Everyone, it’s cold outside. We’re going to be moving the line inside to weave through the hallways,” one of the nurses said. The line moved. We were inside. I had lost my opportunity to flee. The line was ushered through the labyrinth of hallways and immediately given a pre-check form to fill out and asked for my ID to make sure I was in the system. At that point, the line really started moving and within moments found myself at the front of the line. 

“Are you next?” The nurse pointed at me.

I looked around “I suppose,” I responded sheepishly.

“Oh, there’s nothing to worry about. You’re in the right place. Come with me,” she responded.

Could she sense my guilt? Did she know that I felt so uneasy and out of place in this line?

As we walked down the hall, another nurse halted our progress. “I just finished my shift in the ER, I’m here to volunteer for the next 6-hours do you know where I sign in for that?”

“Is this common I asked the nurse?”

“Yes, absolutely. I just got done with my 12-hour shift in oncology a couple of hours ago and I’m here for another 4.”

“Why? I mean, you’ve got to be tired, right?”

It should be noted here that the Seattle area was the first place in the United States to experience COVID-19 infections, and the first reported deaths from the virus happened in our area as well. We’ve been in this place of heightened awareness and vigilance for a year now.

“Absolutely, I’m tired. But I’m more tired of this virus. I’m tired of the death. I’m tired of the maskless stupidity. I’m tired of the lies. I’m glad you’re here to help us stem the tide.”

I took a deep breath to keep myself composed, to not burst out in tears as I watched dozens of nurses calmly walking patients through the hallways, each with a conversation, each with a kind word and a smile. Hope painted across their faces.

I sat down in a chair as another nurse walked me through the process. What to expect, the handout sheet for who to call if things went wonky later, where I wanted the shot. “It hurts like a tetanus shot, right?” 

“Yeah,” she smiled. “It’ll feel like someone socked you in the arm for a couple of days.”

“Then let’s do my left arm.”

I rolled up my sleeve, we laughed about trivial things, small talk as she wiped my arm with alcohol. She asked me a couple of verification questions: my birthday, my name, confirming that I was in fact getting the Pfizer vaccine, how large the dose was and letting me know that my next dose should be the same amount.

She came close and as she drew the vaccination into the needle she looked at me and said, “It’s my honor to give you 0.3mL of the Pfizer vaccine for COVID-19.”

She injected me with the vaccine.

“Do you say that to everyone before you give them the vaccine?”

“Absolutely. It reminds me why I’m here and it helps me see each person as unique instead of as a jab in the arm.”

“Thank you,” I responded, holding back tears. “I appreciate you. You all are exactly what I’ve needed today.”

I sat in the observation area for the next 15 minutes, a couple of nurses checking in on me to see how I was doing, helping me get scheduled for my second Pfizer dose in 3-weeks. Each one smiling, joyous, a hop in their step.

My guilt melting away more and more with every smile, with every kind look. 

I went home, experiencing only a few of the side-effects, a couple of hours of mild rolling waves of nausea, muscle aches—especially on the left side of my neck and shoulder: the side of the body I received the vaccine. I was exhausted—in fact, I took a good nap in the early evening the next day, and had a sore arm. All-in-all a pretty easy go.

I still experience the guilt, however. It comes in waves; which is in part why I’m writing this. I want to remember the experience and the amazing nurses who are giving of themselves so selflessly to see this pandemic put to an end. And also for you, to help assuage your guilt if you’re offered a vaccine appointment. Because as medical ethicists are encouraging “If You’re Offered a Vaccine, Take It: Declining a COVID-19 shot because you think it should go to someone else won’t help anyone.”

One last quick point to leave you with. A friend asked me about my guilt, “If you’re as eligible as everyone else, then why do you feel as if you’re less worthy than them? Why are you so eager to question your worth?”

Oof. Tough, penetrating questions… I don’t have an answer yet, nor do I expect one will come quickly for myself… I’m sure I’ll be chewing on them for a while. And maybe you need to wrestle with these questions too…