Why was it so difficult to decide how to help, and to what degree? The answer is that some people thought they were above the virus, while others sought to profit from it. It became clear that none of us were any safer than the most vulnerable among us, unfortunately, many were too busy hoarding toilet paper and squabbling over who didn't need or deserve help, to notice. Meanwhile, food lines were forming in places where they'd never been.While politicians dragged their well-heeled feet and left Americans to fend for themselves, the experts went into over-drive. There was no cure, and America's social issues seemed to ignore the pandemic altogether.
I had to admit to myself that the defensiveness and caution I felt every time the subject of a vaccine arose, was because I was genuinely afraid. I did not want to be a guinea pig. Whatever remedy was coming would be new and unknown in a climate where information was changing almost daily, and it was difficult to know whose word to trust, and what agency was in charge.
The highest office in the land was occupied by an idiot who had withheld information from the public, botched the response, but he, of course, had access to world class health care. Said idiot was surrounded by willing, pathological liars, cowards, and bootlickers. The incoming administration was like a breath of fresh air, but even its competence, empathy, and coherence couldn't erase the fact that so many people were suffering, and thousands needlessly died.
It was nearly impossible to get people on the same page. It still is. The few people who dared to tell the truth and follow science were second-guessed, ridiculed, and demonized. America wasn't looking exceptional at all. Why were people fighting the very people who wanted to, and were trained to help?
As a Black woman in America, I had a working knowledge of the historically contentious relationship between Black folk and the health care community. Seeing first-hand the excellent care my late father received, in addition to the input of Black scientists, researchers, and physicians, always made me rethink my position, but I was still in no hurry to offer up my arm. I was in the "wait and see" club, and I hunkered down...deeper...and rarely left my neighborhood.Watching footage of people acting out in grocery stores, restaurants, etc., and realizing that the pandemic was fostering irresponsibility, greed, selfishness, ignorance, dishonesty, shame, bullying, defiance, and denial, was just the motivation to make me hunker down even more. It seemed as if people were unhinged and had dialed up their hatred and anger. They didn't like being told what to do, so they rebelled and raged against their fellow citizens, as opposed to concentrating on keeping themselves safe.
I told myself that I was doing my part to flatten the curve, but I was really becoming a study in how to be a better hermit.
I hated feeling fearful. It was becoming increasingly stressful waking each day with the vaccine on my mind. I had no desire to go anywhere. Every time I even thought about going to a store, I dismissed the thought. People were behaving abominably in public.
I imagined myself as the handcuffed star of the newest viral video, because I'd punched out and emptied my ever-present can of fresh linen Lysol on some nut who refused to keep their distance, or tried to snatch my mask off of my face.
I’m a homebody, but I was quarantining like a pro. Painting, reading, blogging, watching TV, listening to podcasts--and cleaning-- helped pass many hours. The thought or sight of crowds, or out of control people protesting mask mandates, and safety precautions, however, was unnerving. I didn’t want to encounter any unpleasantness in person.
I turned down every invitation and request to sing, unless they were virtual. Opportunities that, pre-pandemic, I would not have thought twice about accepting, and requests from people to whom I’d never said “No”, were regretfully and sadly declined. I think some people are still salty that I didn't make an exception for them. I knew I hadn't been in the company of three people, let alone a crowd of any size. I'd never had a Covid test. What if I was asymptomatic?
It's odd how people conveniently forget that we're in a global pandemic. When it's their thing, they don't mind relaxing standards, and are counting on you to relax yours. A highly contagious, deadly virus has demonstrated that it is not a respecter of persons or events.
It doesn't take a break, or give a pass just because you want to have a party, or go out to eat with friends. It loves how lax, careless, dishonest, and evasive people have been about their coming and going, and habits.
My anxiety intensified as my age group was soon to be next in line for the vaccine. I have no pre-existing conditions, no hypertension or diabetes. I don’t remember the last time I had a cold, and have never had a flu shot. Like so many, I wondered (particularly since I’d been aboard a cruise ship for 8 days in January 2020) if I’d already had a bout with Covid-19, and didn’t know it. In confronting my fear, I told myself I was either going to be vaccinated or not, and I needed to make a decision. I'd suffered with asthma as a child. I still remember the inability to breathe waking me out of sleep. I remember being wide-eyed and making such a commotion, kicking my bed and banging on the wall. I remember oxygen tents. I want all of that to remain a memory.
I take a daily multi-vitamin. I’d taken an occasional aspirin or ibuprofen in the past (usually just before going on stage wearing ridiculously high heels). That’s it. I’d read and heard about the side effects of the vaccine. My mother died of a pulmonary embolism. My father's vascular surgery revealed poor circulation, and he was an amputee when he died. I'd never wanted to hear the words "blood clot", "Coumadin", "Warfarin" or "Heparin" ever again.
The thought of deliberately accepting something that would make a well person unwell, was troubling. Then I considered the alternative--not being able to breathe. I remembered what that was like.
I considered that I’m a baby boomer. I had mumps and chicken pox, but not measles, rubella, or polio because---vaccines.
The tactics being used to convince Black people to get vaccinated seemed shady and obvious at the same time. I wondered how much the rich and famous were being paid to sell the vaccine to the rest of us. The Powers That Be trotted out EVERYBODY they thought Black folk would respect--university presidents, athletes, ministers, and artists. (When did we start listening to Morgan Freeman for medical advice? Love his voice and work, but he only played God, nobody thought he was God.)
I watched Dr. Melissa Clarke Bruce’s weekly Facebook live sessions. Hearing the words of a smart, competent, front-line friend were extremely helpful. I talked to my daughter. I followed credible epidemiologists, scientists, doctors, and nurses on social media. My fear subsided as the facts flowed. I made my vaccine appointment based on the words of experts, and the person on Earth I love most.
I was tired of being afraid.
Stress kills, too, after all.
When I went to get my first Pfizer dose, on April 12th, I realized I hadn’t been in the company of so many people in a long time. I'd taken deep breaths as I drove to the Greenbelt facility. I was impressed by the organization, efficiency. and kindness of the volunteers and military personnel.
I was thirsty and sleepy after the first shot—which was nothing like the bayonet in the arm that my mind imagined. I didn’t feel the injection at all. I left Greenbelt and felt brave enough to go inside my favorite Peruvian chicken place, as opposed to having food delivered. Not knowing how I'd react to the vaccine, (and not feeling like cooking) I bought enough meals for three days. I even went to the gas station and filled the tank for only the third time since March 2020.
For some reason, I still didn’t feel motivated to venture out any more than I had before. Being at home had become a habit.
My next trip out of my neighborhood was on May 3rd. I went back to Greenbelt for my second dose, and the process was as efficient as the first time. I picked up chicken and veggies again…and ginger ale…because you need ginger ale just in case. The side effects of the second shot were more pronounced. My arm was sore at the injection site (I offered up my left arm again). I was thirsty, and slept a lot during the day. On the 4th and 5th, my left armpit was swollen and tender. I googled "swollen armpit" and sure enough, it was one of the side effects of the vaccine. On the 6th, and every day since, I’ve felt fine.
I never even opened the Tylenol I purchased.
My sleep schedule has remained off, though. It's rare that I fall asleep before midnight. There were many nights, I didn't sleep at all, watched the sun rise, fell asleep around 5:30 AM, and woke up in time for the first episode of Judge Judy.
I'm fully vaccinated, yet I’ve been apprehensive about resuming shopping, gathering with groups of people, or traveling. The news of the Delta variant isn't encouraging. Social media pages are turning into obituary columns. I’ve stuck to using Amazon Fresh, Instacart and DoorDash. A few days ago, I actually went to get some ice cream at Baskin Robbins, (and masked up as I approached the drive-thru/cashier window). Before heading home, I filled up my gas tank— for the 4th time since March 2020.
I don’t know when things will change, and my contentment surprises me sometimes. I'm not sure how normal everyone's normal was, so the rush to get back to it is either fading or intensifying.
Everyone now knows that many things didn't have to be the way they were. The hustling, rushing, and stress were never necessary. We've found alternatives to being and doing. Our needs and wants have changed. Our priorities have shifted.
It's funny how people who are weary of the pandemic make plans as if the Coronavirus punches a clock, or heeds their calendars or schedules. How many events have been repeatedly pushed back or postponed because someone said, "Oh, it should be over by then".
The one outdoor event I'd consented to participating in this month, was cancelled. I can't say that I was disappointed. I certainly wasn't surprised. Frankly, I was relieved. I love and miss it, but singing requires an awful lot of inhaling and exhaling. An aerosol-borne virus loves that action, too.
So many are determined to run full steam ahead as if nothing is happening--as if the pandemic is over--and they're willing to take other people with them. Maybe it's a matter of economics. Maybe it's stupidity. Maybe it's boredom. Maybe it's brave to take ones chances with the virus as Miss 'Rona and her variant friends tag along for the rides.
I'm just not there yet.
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