O P I N I O N
When the email from our headmaster went out that the school district had procured COVID-19 vaccinations for faculty and staff, I was initially ambivalent.
While excited by the prospect of ending this horrific hybrid model we’ve had since September—with brief interludes of full-remote learning in between—like many, I had heard horror stories about the side effects, and I had some trepidation.
It also didn’t help that I’m not exactly stoic when it comes to needles.
Then, two days before we were scheduled to get our shots, we were informed that we would be receiving Johnson and Johnson’s Janssen vaccine, which meant we’d only need to receive a single dose. While slightly less efficacious in preventing the virus than the Moderna and Pfizer vaccines, the single-shot idea thrilled me.
So around noon on Sunday, March 21, I made the trek from Manchester to the Steeplegate Mall in a Concord, which is now a retail ghost town. I followed the signs and parked in a crowded lot where a line of people, masked and standing six-feet apart, stretched outside the door and wound about a hundred yard down a sidewalk in front of the former-Sears building.
“Forget this,” I said aloud in my car[1]. If there’s one thing I hate more than needles—but not as much as the Yankees—it is waiting in lines. For a brief second I contemplated turning around and going home.
Then I remembered the reason I was there.
And it wasn’t about me.
So I waited in line—there were teachers from numerous school districts in and around the Concord-region waiting as well—and was fortunate to wait with two of my colleagues: an art teacher and a woman from my department.
When we finally made it inside, I waited in another line where we were screened for symptoms of the virus; and then waited another line where we were asked to show our driver’s license, registration forms and school ID’s; and then waited in yet another line where we waited to get pricked.
When my name was finally called, my pulse began to race. I was directed to sit behind a rolling curtain where the kind-looking older woman administering my shot reminded me a little of my own mother, which put me somewhat at ease.[2]
“What’s that you’re reading?” she asked me, pointing to the book I was holding as I rolled up my sleeve.
“It’s Jess Walter’s newest novel, ‘The Cold Millions,” I said, catching the gleam of the needle in my periphery and turning away.
“Is it any good? I read ‘Beautiful Ruins’ and loved it,” she said.
“So far, it’s fantastic,” I said. Then there was pinch in my shoulder, and it was over. “Is that it?” I asked.
“That’s it,” she said. “But I’m not going lie. Your arm is going to hurt.”[3]
I was then told to wait in a chair for 15 minutes to assure I didn’t have an adverse reaction. I tried to read my book, but I was too anxious, half-expecting the transformation scene from the B-movie classic “The Toxic Avenger” to occur.
To make matters worse, while waiting, a stranger called out to no one in particular: “Someone just went down.” And when everyone turned to look, someone had fainted after getting their shot.[4]
I never turned into The Toxic Avenger, and 15 minutes later, a man carrying a clipboard called my name and told me I was free to leave. When I got back to Manchester, I settled into the couch to watch the Red Sox spring-training game and fell asleep.
I woke a couple of hours later with chills and body aches so I grabbed a blanket and an extra pillow then, enervated, went back to sleep for the night.
By Monday morning, I had spiked a fever, alternately between chills and sweating, my muscles cramping, so I sent an email to my boss telling him that the vaccination had laid me out, and there was no way I would be able drive so I was going to try and work from home.[5]
It took a Herculean effort to rouse myself from bed and make it to my desk for the remote conferences with my students and to post my lesson plans and agendas for the week on the Google Classroom.
When I finished, I went back to bed and slept until Monday evening, waking to discover that many of the school districts where my fellow-teachers were immunized on Sunday had to cancel classes due to the volume of teachers calling in sick.[6]
But, ultimately, I’m glad I did it, and I’m glad it’s over. Like I said—and I’m sure many of my friends in education would agree—it was never about me.
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[1] Those weren’t the exact words I used, but it was the same general sentiment. Only instead of “forgetting” the idea, I suggested something copulate with it.
[2] My mother also worked her entire career in nursing, and God bless these selfless people who are volunteering to help others get vaccinated.
[3] And she certainly wasn’t lying. Here I am, almost three days later, and my arm is still sore.
[4] I absolutely, 100 percent, do not know the person who fainted. They do not work at my high school, and I certainly haven’t been on the faculty with them for years.
[5] Mondays are Flex Days in my district, meaning we don’t have scheduled classes but students can access their teachers either remotely or in-person for conferences, extra help or remediation.
[6] And still, the COVID-deniers who wanted all students back in school in October when the pandemic was on the brink of its second wave took this as an opportunity to bitch more about teachers in comments sections and social media, a hypocrisy that I’m pretty sure went unnoticed by them (see title). It seems that lately complaining about teachers has surpassed baseball as our new national pastime.