The freezing rain had iced over my glasses and the parking lot was slick Monday morning, so I was going slowly and walking flat-footed, like you see in the Sasquatch videos.
Just as I got to the door, three people came out.
“Are you here for a shot? They’re on the other side of the building,” said one.
So, off we trudged, the four of us, around to the front of the health department building on NE 63rd Street in Oklahoma.
We were close companions for the next hour or so. A married couple from Choctaw, a woman who lived about two miles from the clinic, and me, lining up to get our first COVID-19 vaccinations.
I’d been trying to sign up for a shot ever since the state opened its portal, but had no luck until Sunday afternoon, when I tried it on a whim.
There were a bunch of openings, so I signed up for the first available, which was 10 a.m. Monday.
Getting the shot turned out to be an interesting experience.
I couldn’t guess how many people were there, because they had us line up in a hallway that seemed to stretch to Luther.
There was never a time when you could see the whole crowd. Couple of hundred, maybe?
It was crowded and the line was long, but people were cheerful and talking easily to those in the line around them.
Everyone in the line was 65 or older, which means they had grown up in the ‘50s and ‘60s and seen polio first hand, had to practice getting under their desks for nuclear drills in grade school and could remember where they were when they heard Kennedy was dead. They had lived through the Vietnam era but some of their friends and family hadn’t and they had seen freedom marchers being firehosed live on tv. They had seen a man walk on the moon and they had seen otherwise responsible men wear leisure suits in public.
So, this was not the kind of crowd to let a little freezing rain and a long line ruin the day, especially if it was for a shot that could help them see a grandkid’s next birthday.
When my turn came, I was escorted to a seat next to a young Army medic who had the same Thunderbird patch on her sleeve that I used to wear.
The last time I had gotten a shot from an Army medic was at Fort Polk, La., in 1971 - half a century ago.
Back then, they used pneumatic guns that operated like staplers. You’d walk through a line with medics on both sides and they’d pop you with shots in both arms. No alcohol swabs, no rubber gloves, no wiping blood off the needle because the guy in front of you flinched.
When you were done, the drill sergeant would drop you for 25 or 50, claiming that pushups would keep your arms from getting sore. I never noticed it making a difference.
Monday, I was cheered when the medic got out a single syringe and disinfected my arm.
A little stick and a squeeze and I was done, on my way to the waiting room for 15 minutes. I kept my eye out for someone sneaking up in a drill sergeant hat, but there were none. Just some ladies explaining side effects and how to get signed up for the follow-up shot.
Monday afternoon I had a slight headache and felt kind of, oh, I guess you could say “blah,” for lack of a more specific term.
Writing this on Tuesday, my arm is a little sore because there was no drill sergeant to make me do pushups and I am tired.
So, on a scale of 1 to 10, I would put my side effects at about .3. Not very bad at all, and it was well worth it.
I want to see my grandkids have their birthdays this summer.