Item
Halfway, hamburgers, and drive-throughs
Title (Dublin Core)
Halfway, hamburgers, and drive-throughs
Description (Dublin Core)
I work in the library at a high school. It has been a surreal experience during the pandemic. While on spring break last year we learned that we were not coming back for two weeks, which became the remaining 9 weeks of the year in short order. At the end of the school year, we had to collect, and in some cases return, the items that students had from campus or had left on campus when we departed for spring break expecting to return on March 16, 2020. For a few weeks, we held drop-off zones for band instruments, sports uniforms, textbooks, and even cameras in the school parking lot. We distributed laptops to students who needed them for virtual learning. We asked seniors to drive through the student parking lot to pick up caps, gowns, and other graduation regalia, eventually diplomas, senior shirts, and if a favorite teacher was working that particular shift, to say final goodbyes. Drive-through graduations took place all across the state and the country in May, hoping that the rising senior class would have a different experience in 2021.
We somehow are no closer to the end of the pandemic, and there is little chance that my school will return to in-person learning before spring break, and that is how it should be. I cannot say what graduation will or won’t look like at this point. Cases in Arizona are exploding, and in the days surrounding my posting of this story, we lead the entire world in positive cases. In some ways, it doesn’t feel like we have even reached the halfway point.
But actually… I have. Because yesterday I was vaccinated with the first dose of the COVD-19 vaccine. My library team and I stalked the website all weekend, waiting for when 1B groups could sign up. I found an open time on Wednesday, January 13, 10 months after March 13, 2020, the day we now say the world fell apart. On top of working, I am a Ph.D. student in history at ASU. So after the first class meeting of my Wednesday class, I drove from Ahwatukee to Chandler-Gilbert Community College and participated in my own parking lot drive-through pandemic procedure. Almost like I was ordering a hamburger in a drive-through. Or maybe I am the hamburger in this analogy? We filed in lines, then split into multiple lanes, guided by a combination of medical staff and National Guard.
The first nurse I spoke to, who asked to see my appointment number and my ID, asked me if I had any medication allergies. I responded that I get raised hives from Amoxicillin and Bactrim. She tied a strip of yellow caution tape around my driver's side mirror and told me that I would have to stay 30 minutes after my injection, rather than 15, to make sure I didn’t have an adverse reaction and then proceed to lane 5. No one was paying attention to my car, and I was far from the only one with this yellow strip, but for the few hundred feet that I drove toward where Lane 5 split into an A and B, I felt marked, and then I got to thinking about what other things warranted the Caution tape. I think that it harkened back to my biggest fear about COVID, that if I became infected, I would be seen as irresponsible, a pariah. It’s a privileged outlook, to be sure, but I had done my best to be safe for almost a year, hence why I was in line for the vaccine on the third day that it was open to 1B individuals.
The next medical staff told me to lower all four windows in my car. You might think for airflow, but a coworker told me it was so that the EMTs could get in your vehicle if you were having a nasty reaction. The doctor for the 5A line asked me again about my allergies and decided to remove the tape that he did not see any fear for an adverse reaction. I pulled up under the tents, put my car in park, and the nurse opened the door. She confirmed with me that it was my first dose and rubbed a single-use alcohol prep pad on my arm. She asked if I was ready while she did that thing that doctors do, the thing where they squeeze a bit of your arm where they are going to stick you. “Yep,” I said back, chipper, unafraid of needles, vaccines, shots, or anything like that. “Okay,” she said, less than a second later, “you’re all done.” I didn’t even feel the needle before she was putting a bandage on my arm and putting my t-shirt sleeve back down. We exchanged “thank you” and “have a great day,” and I pulled up to the end of the line where an EMT gave me a packet of information on the vaccine and a card that had no patient name yet but was stamped with today’s date, indicating that I had completed my first of two vaccines. That I was halfway done. I really have to wait 30 days after the second dose to truly be “done,” but “third-way” done doesn’t quite have the same ring to it. I pulled off to the side on the meandering path back through the campus parking lot and took a photo with my half-completed card. Because by social media rules, if you don’t take a selfie with your card, were you really vaccinated? Thinking back to my coworkers’ puppies that had gotten their vaccinations to make them safe around other dogs over the summer, I sent the photo to our group chat, “halfway to street legal!”
We somehow are no closer to the end of the pandemic, and there is little chance that my school will return to in-person learning before spring break, and that is how it should be. I cannot say what graduation will or won’t look like at this point. Cases in Arizona are exploding, and in the days surrounding my posting of this story, we lead the entire world in positive cases. In some ways, it doesn’t feel like we have even reached the halfway point.
But actually… I have. Because yesterday I was vaccinated with the first dose of the COVD-19 vaccine. My library team and I stalked the website all weekend, waiting for when 1B groups could sign up. I found an open time on Wednesday, January 13, 10 months after March 13, 2020, the day we now say the world fell apart. On top of working, I am a Ph.D. student in history at ASU. So after the first class meeting of my Wednesday class, I drove from Ahwatukee to Chandler-Gilbert Community College and participated in my own parking lot drive-through pandemic procedure. Almost like I was ordering a hamburger in a drive-through. Or maybe I am the hamburger in this analogy? We filed in lines, then split into multiple lanes, guided by a combination of medical staff and National Guard.
The first nurse I spoke to, who asked to see my appointment number and my ID, asked me if I had any medication allergies. I responded that I get raised hives from Amoxicillin and Bactrim. She tied a strip of yellow caution tape around my driver's side mirror and told me that I would have to stay 30 minutes after my injection, rather than 15, to make sure I didn’t have an adverse reaction and then proceed to lane 5. No one was paying attention to my car, and I was far from the only one with this yellow strip, but for the few hundred feet that I drove toward where Lane 5 split into an A and B, I felt marked, and then I got to thinking about what other things warranted the Caution tape. I think that it harkened back to my biggest fear about COVID, that if I became infected, I would be seen as irresponsible, a pariah. It’s a privileged outlook, to be sure, but I had done my best to be safe for almost a year, hence why I was in line for the vaccine on the third day that it was open to 1B individuals.
The next medical staff told me to lower all four windows in my car. You might think for airflow, but a coworker told me it was so that the EMTs could get in your vehicle if you were having a nasty reaction. The doctor for the 5A line asked me again about my allergies and decided to remove the tape that he did not see any fear for an adverse reaction. I pulled up under the tents, put my car in park, and the nurse opened the door. She confirmed with me that it was my first dose and rubbed a single-use alcohol prep pad on my arm. She asked if I was ready while she did that thing that doctors do, the thing where they squeeze a bit of your arm where they are going to stick you. “Yep,” I said back, chipper, unafraid of needles, vaccines, shots, or anything like that. “Okay,” she said, less than a second later, “you’re all done.” I didn’t even feel the needle before she was putting a bandage on my arm and putting my t-shirt sleeve back down. We exchanged “thank you” and “have a great day,” and I pulled up to the end of the line where an EMT gave me a packet of information on the vaccine and a card that had no patient name yet but was stamped with today’s date, indicating that I had completed my first of two vaccines. That I was halfway done. I really have to wait 30 days after the second dose to truly be “done,” but “third-way” done doesn’t quite have the same ring to it. I pulled off to the side on the meandering path back through the campus parking lot and took a photo with my half-completed card. Because by social media rules, if you don’t take a selfie with your card, were you really vaccinated? Thinking back to my coworkers’ puppies that had gotten their vaccinations to make them safe around other dogs over the summer, I sent the photo to our group chat, “halfway to street legal!”
Date (Dublin Core)
Creator (Dublin Core)
Contributor (Dublin Core)
Type (Dublin Core)
text story with photo
Controlled Vocabulary (Dublin Core)
Curator's Tags (Omeka Classic)
Contributor's Tags (a true folksonomy) (Friend of a Friend)
Collection (Dublin Core)
Date Submitted (Dublin Core)
01/14/2021
Date Modified (Dublin Core)
02/03/2021
Item sets
This item was submitted on January 14, 2021 by Erica using the form “Share Your Story” on the site “A Journal of the Plague Year”: https://covid-19archive.org/s/archive
Click here to view the collected data.