Death and Vaxes
A descendant-of-inbred-shtetl-dwellers' lament.
Until this weekend, I was determined to diligently wait my turn for a Covid vaccine. Now I have more complicated feelings about it.
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Forty-eight hours ago, I still held some amount of faith in the governmentās vaccine distribution plans, and I still feel strongly that other peopleāolder people, essential workers, people with serious co-morbiditiesāneed to be inoculated sooner than I do, especially given that Iām able to work from home.
I had felt frustrated, though, noticing social media posts made by acquaintances much younger and healthier than me, mostly smiling photos of them getting their jabs. I DMed a few, asking how they managed to cut the line, and they confessed to the ways in which theyād bent the truth, by either a little or a lot. I judged them harshly, and also began losing faith in the system.
Why was it so easy to cut the line? Why werenāt more people conflicted about it? Why had booking vaccinations become a total free-for-all? Were all these people jumping the line pushing me further down it? Were you an idiot if you didnāt try to pull some strings and just get yourself vaccinated?
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Then, on Friday, Carol Zuckerman, my 56-year-old cousin, died of Covid in Florida. Just one year older than me, she was a single mom who leaves behind a 10-year-old daughter, Lacey.
Only three weeks ago, another cousin in Israel had tried to persuade Carol to get vaccinated, but Carol said she felt conflicted about it, for various reason. Then, boom.
While she was sick, Carol tried to receive monoclonal therapyāthe treatment our villainous last president and many other VIPs received after they contracted Covidābut was told she was ineligible. Now sheās dead, and her daughter is an orphan. Lacey has now tested positive for Covid and canāt yet travel to her new home in New York, where sheāll live with cousins.
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There is so much more tragedy bound up in this story than I can even begin to grapple with. I am heartbroken for Lacey, and also Carolās 96-year-old mother, Annie. This all reminds me of my late grandmother, Clarisse, tragically losing her mother, Freida, when she was just three years old, during the Influenza epidemic. Iām angry at the monsters in power who allowedāeven encouragedāthis deadly virus to spread. Iām also terrified.
Itās astounding to think that someone just a year older than meāsomeone from my much immunocompromised familyācame this far in the pandemic, when vaccines are now becoming available, but ultimately lost her life from the virus. I canāt help but be afraid of this happening to me.
Now I want to get vaccinated, asap. A few different friends have been working to help me find appointments. āYou have to lie a little,ā one of them said, and thatās where Iām struggling.
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I pride myself on being an honest person. I strive to be aware of my privilege as a white person, and to avoid using it to any kind of advantage. Iām deeply conflicted about the finagling that getting vaccinated right now would require.
Itās been suggested to me that I could say Iām a teacher. But at least these days, I do all of my teaching online. I could say that Iām immunocompromised. And I am, in ways that many people in my extended family are, too. Carolās late father, Lennyāmy motherās first cousinātheorized that the whole lot of us suffer from eczema, asthma, assorted allergies, and other chronic illnesses because we are descendants of inbred shtetl dwellers.
But I donāt have the right assortment of co-morbidities to qualify for a shot. I have celiac, endometriosis, adenomyosis, polycystic ovarian syndrome, eczema, severe allergies, chronic migraine, and other conditions. My upper respiratory system is weakāIāve had pneumonia six times, starting when I was an 18-month-old baby, and have never had a simple cold that didnāt turn into six to eight weeks of bronchitis.
In my late 30s I was diagnosed with asthma, but at that time I was going through a phase where I was reluctant to get an inhaler or use pharmaceuticals. Having been on a lot of medications in my life, and prone to suffering side-effects, I have always gone back and forth between western and alternative medicine, and experienced a lot of frustration with both. Sometimes, with some of my conditions, I just do nothing, and live with it, because the treatments can be worse than what Iām trying to treat. Or treatment can be too expensive, or too experimental to warrant the investment, or taking chances.
I have no proof of my asthma diagnosis. And thereās no box to tick thatās like āimmunocompromised descendant of inbred shtetl dwellers.ā
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If I was conflicted about all of this before Carol died, Iām now more conflicted, because Iām extra anxious about if and when I can get my dose. What if thereās another insurrection, or white nationalists stage some other kind of violence that disrupts vaccine distribution? What if anti-vaxxers compromise the supply? I hate thinking my opportunity to be protected from this awful, deadly virus is subject to any kind of chance.
I hope that as vaccine production ramps up, theyāll soon lower the age restriction in New York State to 55. (Another cousin has told me that in Colorado, where she lives, as of March 21st, the minimum age there will be 50. Thatās hopeful.)
Iād like to think I can get both get my shot and feel good about how I got it. But maybe thatās too much to ask for at this crazy time.
Oh, while I have you hereāsome stuff Iāve got coming up:
An new, updated edition ofĀ Goodbye to All ThatĀ landing April 6th with seven new essays by: Leslie Jamison, Emily Raboteau, Lisa Ko, Ada Limon, Carolita Johnson, Danielle A. Jackson, and Rosie Schaap.Ā Please consider preordering from Bookshop!
My long-formĀ essay writing intensiveĀ at Catapult May 22nd and 23rd.
MyĀ anthology editing workshopĀ at Catapult, four Wednesday evenings in May.
Iāve gotĀ an essay in the March/April issue of Writerās DigestĀ about not feeling obligated to write about trauma.
People seem to be enjoyingĀ my Skillshare class.
Sari. Sending you hugs and healing. Keep working with your friends to get vaccinated. I have been in school with kiddos since October and am scared every day. Our state has not prioritized teachers until this week. I have my first dose on Wednesday. But while waiting for that, I have done everything right and, watching others not make the selfless choice, has been agonizing at times. That includes families of the children I teach and friends. I could not help my Sarah move to Brooklyn (yup my Vermont baby in the big city) because I need to stay healthy to help my parents (and writing sub plans for a week of quarantine would take about 20 hours). But I feel a sense of hope, knowing I will be fully vaccinated by the end of April. However, I also know that I will continue to do what is right for our society, even when others wonāt. š