The Jab
It were as if emergency military hospitals had taken inspiration from corporate event planning. The gym of West Bronx Recreational Center held two rows of ten partitioned spaces — five adjacent pairs — about four feet tall, so you could see everyone’s face but within a shroud of illusive privacy, order and separation. Speed rails wrapped in white cloth formed the rectangular spaces; along two walls another ten, single stations held more paramedics and patients. Two chairs, a desk, needles and vaccine jars kept company to the itinerant belonging of the rotating staff, set exactly six feet apart. Nurses dashed between partitions, delivering supplies.
The queue stopped at an individual who directed you to the next available station, the penultimate step in a relay of mandates that I traced in reverse through the hallway, around the corner, out the door, down the ramp, out to the fence. At each turn another guide. But it was at that penultimate stage that I realized this was exactly like Trader Joes. That is, a method of client distribution that is precisely one generation behind how Whole Foods directs customers to cash registers. There was a rubbing alcohol dispenser. I used it. Have our innovations in consumer technologies surpassed our developments in governing behavior?
My paramedic welcomed me and confirmed my identity and appointment — the first confirmation had been on the sidewalk next to Jesup Avenue where staff confirmed each person with ipads and cheer. This confirmation took longer, although it consisted of the same documents and protocols: looking at my driver’s license and then looking at my face. For most of the staff here, the age was solidly in the early twenties, except for those who were actually injecting people.
The paramedic asked which arm I wanted it in; I said the left. An inordinate amount of time went by as he muscled through forms, needles and jars, opening, discarding, opening another while a bandage hung from my bare shoulder, partially adhered, awaiting the jab. Four minutes later he wiped my shoulder again, told me he could see that I went to the gym, counted down from three and injected it on two, then filled out a little card, by hand, Black in, barely legible, which reminded me of a health card I have from when I was five.
Inspecting the form, I saw the CDC logo, first and second dose cells, as well as two rows for “other” vaccines (?); on the reverse a third cell for COVID-19 vaccine and another “other” cell. Then instructions to “bring this card to every vaccination or medical visit,” and two URLs, one for more information about the COVID-19 vaccine and one for reporting “possible adverse reactions following the COVID-19 vaccination.” No signature, no stamp, the nearest identifier being a lot number for the vaccine itself.
Then the paramedic scrawled the time of the injection on a scrap of paper and told me to go to the waiting area, in the other half of the gym.
A woman directed each person to sit in which chair, each six feet apart, and to move up one row as the people ahead confirmed their second appointment with the staff on another digital tablet. 28 days. Same time, same place. There were six rows of three chairs.
Then a second, larger waiting area, directly behind us, where we were to sit for 15 minutes, in case some had an allergic reaction or medical emergency; a man of 20 years old floated around asking each of us what our time was. Clearly they were overstaffed, but in this pandemic, with so many unemployed, who could blame the organizers?
While I had signed up for the Johnson & Johnson — a one shot vaccine — I was told at the center that only Moderna jabs were being administered. I acquiesced, and consigned my travel plans to the period of constant revisions. Later I learned of a manufacturing flaw in which Johnson & Johnson was forced to throw away thousands of doses.
Arriving home fifteen minutes later, I felt a minor headache. I drank a liter of water. The weather was in the mid 50s, I’d rode my bike home, and had been told by the paramedic that I should eat a big meal. The shot was at 2:30. I was home by 3:15. By 8:30 the headache was still there.
Since I had, what I believe to have been, COVID back in March of 2020, I’ve had these spells, occasionally — after a tough exercise, usually squats or lower body. They feel like the day before you concede that you’re going to get sick. Only this ghost sickness never evolved into anything. I had one spell that lasted three weeks. I was tested for COVID during these spells and got all negative PCR tests and never a traceable antibody. I visited a doctor and had blood work done. Nothing. A few days after the doctor, I resumed my normal routine of going to the gym seven days a week for 45 minutes. Eventually it stopped. I expect the same to occur after I publish this, which is the second day after the jab.
I’m not entirely surprised I feel “a little under the weather” after this vaccine; I usually feel similar after a flu vaccine, but recover after a few days, or rather the phantom ailment vanishes completely. My very present immune system, with an avid immune response, is supposedly something to be envied.
As the evening came on, the headache became more prominent — though still not serious enough to warrant taking an aspirin. It was a modest inconvenience, not even a distraction. In morning, I felt 10 to 20 percent below normal. Slight lethargy. The same minor headache. I had slept eight hours. A big breakfast, two cups of coffee and the energy level, sense of strength and clear headedness continued to decline. Lifting, walking, or driving was a conscious chore. By noon, I was wondering if I really should go scuba diving.
In the evening of the next day, I took a long hot shower, which felt great, but afterward developed a slight fever of 100.2 degrees. It peaked for about an hour and then went back to normal. Another full night sleep and by morning, I felt fine, just a minor ache in my left shoulder, and the same bandage, now asking to be removed, partially adhered.
