VIEWPOINT: Vaccine Madness

By Ellen Meyers

Getting a vaccine appointment has been compared to getting a ticket for a hot concert. And last night, several days after Friday’s debacle, I actually dreamed that I was at a hot concert.

While seated up front and really close to Bruce Springsteen, my mind wandered to: Would I rather have gotten a COVID-19 vaccine appointment or be at this amazing concert?

No question in my mind at all.

As someone who has managed throughout the years to nab those tickets, how did I find myself more and more in a minority of friends and family who haven’t gotten the vaccine?

Having decamped to my boyfriend’s house in Water Mill in mid-March 2020, and having barely ventured back to the city, I felt that I should get the vaccine here. I voted here — I even worked the polls here. And maybe I felt somewhat guilty that, having quarantined in paradise and abandoned my town, I had no right to jump into the New York City vaccine competition.

My boyfriend, who is a chunk of years older than I, had no such ambivalence, and, being in the first age group eligible, he jumped on it, drove into Manhattan, and got a shot the first week it was available.

By the time I started the insanity of frantic internet scrolling, I was more than a day late. Just once, as I neared the finish line for an appointment at Jones Beach, the “confirm” button proved unclickable. Infuriating.

Then friends told me about a clinic in nearby Southampton where you could sign up on a vaccine waiting list. They didn’t know the name of it but said I couldn’t miss it. Look for a red brick building across from the hospital.

On a freezing cold day, I parked my car on the street between the hospital and a red brick building. Shivering — it was so cold! — I tried to find the entrance to the red brick building, but after walking its entire perimeter, I couldn’t find it. Reminiscent of a recurring nightmare.

I did spot a sign in front of another building announcing second COVID-19 vaccines. Parked in front of the building was one of those golf cart-like conveyances that can seat about a dozen passengers. When I told the driver what I was looking for, he told me to hop on, and drove me to the entrance of the hospital.

With the walkway covered with plastic, it looked like they were expecting a large crowd who would be spending time standing in line. No one was there except for two very bored-looking young women at desks flanking the entranceway.

In response to my vaccination query, one begrudgingly wrote on a very small piece of paper a website link — yes, the New York State one we all know about.

The driver had waited for me and insisted on giving me a ride back to my car. I was now chilled to the bone.

Upon hearing my saga, my friend said she would guide me to the proper red brick building. The next morning, I followed her in my car, only to find out that the clinic was no longer adding to its waiting list. The receptionist gave me a web link.

Meanwhile, more and more people I knew were not only vaccinated but close to getting their second shots. Every conversation began with or quickly turned to who had gotten vaccinated.

I definitely started to feel like a loser, because what I heard was gloating. They won.

And now I am also thinking: I have all the time and technology at my fingertips. What about everyone else, like people with full-time jobs, families to take care of, lousy internet?

The day rolls around for my boyfriend’s second shot. We do hear about some people having reactions to theirs, so I decide I’d better drive in with him just in case. And who knows? Maybe someone can sneak an injection into my arm.

We drop off Wally, the dog, with the friends who tried to help with the clinic fiasco, and head to Mount Sinai. At the door, we ask about my getting a shot and are told that was in no way possible, that I wouldn’t even be able to get an appointment.

At the next gateway, the sign-in desk, that attendant makes an attempt to see about my getting a shot, and when that fails she signs me up for an appointment later that month. I thank her and ask her name — Francesca.

While on the vaccine line, my phone rings, and I see it’s a 212 area code. Although I don’t know who it is, I make an exception to my never answering unknown calls, and I pick up. Magical thinking that the hospital has tracked me down in the hospital.

And it’s Francesca! Francesca … from the Manhattan Theater Club. A solicitation call.

I run to tell the first Francesca, with a glimmer of hope that she will be so taken by the story, she will figure out how to get me vaccinated on the spot.

She says, “Oh, that’s a coincidence.”

But I do have an appointment. Unfortunately for me, the day before, it snows and snows and then snows some more. It’s the kind of day I typically love, but all I feel the entire day is stress. Will I be able to get into the city?

I call the hospital. They are open, and because they are getting less snow in the city that day, there is no question that they will be open the following day.

I pack my lunch and drive in. The conditions are terrible, snow turning to rain turning to sleet. Somewhere near Huntington, it’s almost a white-out. Stress on top of stress.

I have a small car, so parking is rarely an issue for me, but because alternate-side parking has been suspended, I give up after 15 minutes of driving around in circles. I head into the hospital lot. It’s one of those multiple-level nightmares.

When I get to the top floor, the fifth, I almost despair, but then, after running over a cone, I find a spot that no one has taken because one of the cars is over the yellow dividing line. It is very tight, but I squeeze in.

I make it to the hospital, which seems somewhat empty, and find out my appointment has been canceled. They hadn’t gotten a vaccine shipment from the state.

I can’t find the words to describe how awful, frustrated and powerless I felt.

They say they have contacted me, and when they check their computer, it turns out they have called me on my landline in Brooklyn. A nurse, who is all business but kind, guides me to a sign posted on the wall with, yes, that web link. When I tell her that I have tried it umpteen times, she suggests trying in the middle of the night.

I learn from her that not only has the vaccine rollout been a competitive nightmare for individuals but that it has been one for the institutions as well.

I decide I better eat before attempting the dreaded drive back. And I realize that my choice is to eat in the hospital — not in the cafeteria, because that is open to staff only — or in the garage. The latter seems the more depressing of the two, so I find a chair in the hallway, take off my mask, and eat.

The only humor — dark, though it is — that I can summon up is that maybe the upshot of this shotless outing will be my contracting COVID-19 in the hospital, since I have to eat maskless.

Back at the garage, I realize I have lost the parking ticket. Of course. It’s that kind of day.

I pay top dollar to bail out my car, head into Friday afternoon traffic, and simultaneously wipe my eyes and the windshield as I cry my way home.

Ellen Meyers is a resident of Water Mill.