Time has a funny way of moving fast and slow at the same time.
Just a year ago I wrote about getting my first dose of the Moderna vaccine and feeling guilty for being at the front of the line because I worked in health care.
Getting help for myself while others around me were still at risk didn’t make me feel that much better. Sure, I was less likely to get hospitalized or die, but what about my husband or my dad? What about my friends and neighbors who didn’t work in health care, and their families? I was in a lifeboat rowing away while the Titanic was sinking.
The day they announced vaccine slots would open up for folks 60 and over at the State Farm Stadium, I signed into the website and clicked repeatedly on the available dates. The slots were getting snapped up by thousands of others trying at the same time.
I was anxious to get my husband on the list so I could stop worrying about him getting sick or even dying from COVID. We nabbed a 4 a.m. slot and spent the night in a Glendale hotel, waking up in the wee hours to get in line and drive through a maze of cars and checkpoints to get his first shot.
I remember taking a picture of his vaccine card and sharing it online. It felt like a small dose of hope, and in many ways it was. More people I knew were getting fully vaccinated.
It untied the knot I had in my stomach every time I stopped in to say hello to my dad and give him a hug. Not that we still couldn’t get sick, it just meant the odds of anyone I loved dying from COVID were improving.
I flew back to Minnesota this December and met up with folks I hadn’t seen for over two years. I noticed how different this visit was compared to the pre-COVID days. Instead of staying with friends, I booked a hotel room, for their comfort as well as my own.
The first friend I met for breakfast had found out that morning a coworker tested positive. Another friend declined to join me for lunch because the other person I was meeting was unvaccinated and she didn’t want to risk carrying anything to her elderly parents over Christmas. And at the request of a family member, I took two COVID rapid tests in my hotel room, two days apart, so I could join them for Sunday dinner.
Many of the people I hang out with have gotten their booster, but some dear friends still haven’t taken the plunge to get the first dose. They all have their reasons, whether it’s a religious belief, a medical condition, or fears stoked by things they’ve read or heard from others.
It’s hard for me to imagine the possibility of losing someone I love when a simple shot could save them. And yet, it’s happening to people I know. I’ve had so many shots in my lifetime: six years of allergy shots, childhood vaccinations, Hepatitis B required for a job, penicillin as a kid, and tetanus shots whenever I cut myself on rusty metal.
I’ve never wondered about the research or whether they were rushed to market too quickly. I just believed these shots were created to protect me and the people around me from getting sick, so I held out my arm.
So this New Year’s Eve, instead of writing down all the resolutions for 2022 that I probably won’t keep anyway, I’m just going to resolve to be hopeful. Hopeful that we will find more ways to keep people from getting sick or dying from COVID, in formats that people who won’t get a vaccine find acceptable.
Hopeful that friendships and families that have become divided over politics, vaccine, and mask mandates will mend. Hopeful that we will be kinder and more patient with each other, even if we disagree.
Hopeful that 2022 will be a better year for all of us.