The Vaccination Queue

5 minute read

A few months ago I would tear up whenever I thought of the vaccine. Such wondrous science, such a miracle of medicine. I was sure that I would be a blubbering mess whenever I received my shot. Fast forward to the end of June and those tears had been dried up by exhaustion, frustration and the deep and meaningful desire to have someone else make my dinner and to be able to eat it without having to wear the clothing equivalent of a lagging jacket.

By the time I arrived at Punchestown, I was happy to be getting vaccinated but was worn down by the previous week when my friends of identical age had all been done and I had, I assumed, registered incorrectly forever to be forgotten.

I just wanted to be jabbed and for it all to be over and done with. But then I met Liz.

She was standing just inside the door, two people in front of me stopped to talk to her and I hung back, mindful of the blue bubbles on the floor telling me what constituted two metres. What’s this now I thought, a delay already. They moved forward and so did I.

“Hi, I’m Liz, I’m a nurse.”

I looked up and made eye contact. Communicating has been tricky since mask-wearing began and faces can be hard to read. But not this one. She was beaming, a full smile, through her eyes.

“Is it your first shot?”

I nodded.

“Are you ok? Apprehensive? Any questions? I’m here to help.”

I shook my head, temporarily shook myself. I hadn’t expected this. She was lovely and kind and concerned.

“Isn’t it great?” she beamed at me.

“It is,” I mumbled back. “Thanks Liz.”

As I shuffled forward I had to take a deep breath. It was great. A bloody medical marvel. I had forgotten that in my annoyance about text messages and the HSE and every shagging thing that has or hasn’t happened since early 2020. I needed Liz.

As I stood in the queue I watched her greet every single person who came through the door. Everyone was like me, stopping resignedly to listen to more instructions before lifting their head to look at the smiling, welcoming face and walking from her, some smiling themselves, some wiping a tear. What a day. What a place.

It’s a funny thing to have to queue up with a cohort of people the same age as you. You don’t often get to be in a line with a group you know to have been born within the same five years or so. Everyone’s eyes were darting up and down the lines.

Oooh she looks well I thought. Is she my age? I like her shoes. I wonder is she younger and she’s been called early for some reason. I glanced left. There’s no way he’s in our cohort, he looks ancient. Maybe he missed an appointment and he’s here late. A man in the line to my right was nearly giving himself whiplash staring at a new arrival still close to the door. He seemed fascinated by his shoes, sort of smirking to himself. What’s the joke I thought? The guy by the door was wearing a pair of pretty cool trainers with some slim fitting jeans. The fella beside me had the standard Irish man uniform of brown shoes, straight jeans and check shirt – ready to go straight from his vaccine appointment to the queue for Coppers. He had taken out his phone and was texting furiously. The woman stewarding the first line outside had told me everyone was from the same general part of Kildare that day. I wondered did the two men go to school together and were now texting their respective friends saying, “you should see the fancy shoes on him” and “is he a guard now?”.

Once I was registered, I moved to the next queue and then to the next one. I did marvel at our obedience. If it does all turn out to be a plan to inject us with 5g we’re going to be mortified at how easy it was to turn us into fleshy antennae.

Maura called me into her cubicle for my shot and we laughed at how emphatically I told her I wasn’t pregnant. She showed me where to go and what to expect next. I took my seat in the hall where you wait to make sure you’re not going to keel over. Rows and rows of chairs all facing the same way. Filled with people watching the clock, counting down their 15 minutes to safety.

It reminded me of something, but I couldn’t put my finger on it until the check shirt man from the queue caught my eye in the row beside me. “Is it too late to ask for the ordinary level paper,” he laughed.

I looked down at the badge I’d been given and thought about the last 16 months. The things we’ve missed, the people we couldn’t say goodbye to, the tiny new people we haven’t yet met, and everyone who has been lonely and scared.

I looked up and smiled. “It’s never too late,” I said.

He was staring at the clock and turned to look at me. Glancing at his badge, he nodded. Then he stood and left.

Three minutes later I was walking out the same door, smiling behind my mask at every staff member I passed.

An older man, wearing a volunteer hi-vis jacket was in the car park. “All done?” he called over. “You got a great day for it.”