Editor’s note: In anticipation of the one-year anniversary of the COVID-19 pandemic’s arrival in the Upper Valley, we asked Valley News readers to reflect on the last 12 months.
The day is cold, but not so cold that the snow pelting down would be considered dry or fluffy. It has a jaunty bounce, almost. The roads are, as we are wont to say, “greasy.” I anticipate my second night of giving a shot in the arm to lucky recipients of the COVID-19 vaccine.
Before my first night at this outdoor clinic in a parking lot in Claremont, one of my secret worries was giving an injection again. (I’m a mostly retired nurse practitioner and it has been years — certainly before these newer safety syringes became the order of the day.) I am most anxious about how cold my hands might get.
First, I dress: Two pairs of wool socks. Then some ancient long underwear, followed by woolen leggings, then some very old, impermeable Bill Koch cross-country ski pants with long-dead elastic. On top, a similar situation: long underwear, wool shirt, fleece and a long down coat. I wear a wool hat, and a hood to keep the wet snow off the hat. Sorrels on my feet; foot warmers are available at the site. I will don a face shield over my glasses, two masks, a pair of glove liners to go under the nitrile gloves I’ll wear while injecting.
I can barely bend over. What is it? #Abominable Snowman?
My shift starts at 4 p.m. and goes until 9.
The snow is lovely when I arrive at the clinic site, but I’m sweating after the 45-minute car ride from all the clothes I have on. I see about a hundred cars (really) and bypass the line to park. I try not to catch anyone’s eye as I pass them; the move I’m making looks like I’m a total jerk line-jumper.
Walking by car after car of waiting folks, I enter the almost steamy trailer to get my assignment. I am paired with another woman volunteer. Together we will question, log, vaccinate, educate and send these people forward into the night — one step closer to normalcy maybe? We’ll give out Pfizer and Moderna vaccines, first and second shots.
Our site is maintained by members of the National Guard: Couldn’t be a nicer group of people working this rodeo. There are Guard members in camo logging in arrivals, others drawing up shots of the vaccine (keeping lot numbers and vaccine types straight — and don’t forget one vaccine is 0.3 milliliter; the other 0.5), others doing traffic control and watching the post-vaccine lot. Still others salt the roads where we run back and forth.
We’re given computer tablets to record the questions we ask, the vaccine type and the date of the follow-up. We head outside.
In the first car is a woman who is very unhappy with the wait, and she lets us know, in no uncertain terms, how disgraceful it is. We apologize. She keeps it up. We should be ashamed, she announces. It looks like her husband would like to climb under the hood. We are polite and don’t yap back. I don’t know what’s going on in her world. I do suggest that she consider volunteering to help and maybe things would be much smoother. Then I give her a shot in the arm.
The snow is really coming down now, and my eyeglasses and face shield are completely fogged up, despite some pretreatment with a soap solution. My hair is all over the place because the face shield has pulled my hat off. No one but me seems to mind.
The tablets don’t work well when wet, so I have a better understanding why the computer portion of this roadshow takes so long. After each person answers questions, I go back to the trailer to enter the information, fill out a card with the vaccine type, lot number and other details (of course the ink runs when snow lands on the card), set up a new appointment for shot No. 2 (if this isn’t already shot No. 2), answer questions and then send them to the 15-minute side-effect observation lot (also known as “anaphylaxis alley”).
Being a volunteer at this clinic will stay with me, akin to my stint in Haiti following the 2010 earthquake, even. My memories from this time?
■ Sticking a bandage on an arm covered in wet snow while double gloved in below freezing temperatures.
■ Hand sanitizer that has chilled down as cool as it can be. Cold gets through the gloves and is bone-chilling.
■ Watching a fellow hold his wife’s hand because he is so afraid of needles.
■ Giving injections to a few elderly folks (which means older than me) who are almost certainly not clear at all about what is going on.
■ Being amazed at how professional the young National Guard members are.
■ The relief I see in some once the shot is done.
Most everyone is pleasant, and thankful. Lots of jokers. Most all are glad to get their vaccine. Glad to move forward in the line. In their life.
I cheer people on. I give shots. I fill out computer questionnaires. I fog up. I feel old. I feel good.
Is it too much to feel hopeful?
Virginia Beggs lives in Meriden.