The Elusive Quest for the Vaccine

A novel title, isn’t it?

Another “woe is me” story about some inconsequential human with the privilege of a laptop and internet access, lamenting to whomever will read this post, all while attempting to avoid any typos between sips of cabernet sauvignon (did I mention privileged?).

Alas, if one has the privilege, why not use it? It’s not like there is much else to do these days when you’re in the middle of a panini (it’s apparently “cool” to A) sound older than you are and B) supplant a random “P” word in place of “pandemic,” because who wants to acknowledge the cold harsh reality that we are forced to live in?). Speaking of the pandemic, it seems that (for better or for worse or for upset) a lot of my peers have gained/will gain/have cheated their way to a vaccine! And that is, for better or for worse or for upset, great.

Great (for better) because they’re older or have underlying health issues that qualify them for eligibility.

Great (for worse) because they lied to get it and the only way that I can stand to reason that it’s a “great” thing is because their likelihood of becoming an inherent spreader of the virus has diminished drastically.

Great (for upset) because a good amount of them got it by chance. Serendipity. Kismet. Murphy’s fucking Law.

I, however, am in none of the above. I want to take this paragraph to acknowledge my privilege yet again—I am healthy. I am low risk. I am young. I am not immunocompromised. I am in no immediate danger. I, and likely millions of others, are in the nebulous limbo of doing “just fine” (mental health notwithstanding [a story for a different post if I feel the need to keep this Medium alive]). That said, my privilege does not protect me from my own emotions and feelings of isolation. On top of everything I just outlined, I am also feeling very excluded.

When is it my turn? When do I get a needle JAMMED into my arm and a vaccine creating thousands of microchips that will turn me gayer than a Fire Island production of The Birdcage (or whatever other nonsense anti-vaxxers have been pushing)? When do I get to feel the overwhelming anticlimax of the five seconds it takes the push the plunger of the syringe down and the liquid into my body? When do I get to feel like i’m in on the fun?

At the time of writing, that date is tentatively April 19th, but we are not seeking for concrete answers—oh no. We are waxing poetic and having a selfish moment. Why? Because I can. I am not blithely unaware that getting the vaccine is an inevitability. I know it’s going to happen and I likely know when. What’s upsetting me is the incessant drumroll. The sound that has now become synonymous with the dripping tap of the bathroom faucet or the tapping toes of the stilettoed heel at the DMV. Deafening. Cacophonous. Fucking rude. It goes and it goes and it goes and I am begging for it to end.

I am begging for it to stop, so I can, for at least a moment, become jarred from the lack of sound instead of annoyed by the omnipresence of it’s chattering. I want that moment of shock when I realize that it’s over and have to readjust to a new normal. I want to have a new problem to deal with—one that is tangible with an actionable outcome.

I want, for better or for worse or for upsetting, to be a part of the solution instead of apart from it. The elusiveness will end and the drumroll will stop, both of which I know.

The only unknown is when.