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One morning this week, as I was driving 90 minutes on a highway, past frost-covered fields and crisp white church spiers, I finally cried. I was about to get the vaccine, and after nearly a year of emotions, they suddenly poured out.
I qualified for the vaccine in Missouri Phase 1B-Level 2 because I have Crohn’s disease, an autoimmune disease that affects the intestinal tract, as well as psoriasis and psoriatic arthritis – conditions run by a rigid medication schedule that suppresses the immune system, leaving people like me especially vulnerable to severe illness from the coronavirus.
The virus felt inevitable, as it has for so many people. At work, as a writer for the New York Times, I read story after story about the loss of human life and try to find words to help readers understand and deal with the toll of the pandemic. At home, the virus exposed my own health problems. I moved to Kansas City, Missouri, from New York in June, after 100 days alone in my apartment, to be closer to my family in case I got infected.
Every step outside of my apartment felt like a calculated risk.
Driving east on I-50 to the Missouri State Fairgrounds in Sedalia, I felt all the emotions of the year flare up. Could this be what hope looks like?
Getting a vaccine is far from guaranteed, even for two million Missourians who qualify. As of February 4, only 6.3% of the state’s six million people had received a dose of the vaccine.
I set up alerts to see every tweet from Governor Mike Parson, the Kansas City and Jackson County Health Departments, and nearly every hospital system in the area. A tweet is how I learned about the openings at a state-hosted mass vaccination event.
On Monday, I signed up for my fourth vaccine list. Tuesday afternoon, I received the call: my appointment would be the next day.
Inside the farm building transformed into a vaccination clinic, I was one of the youngest patients. Fearing that I would be refused at the door because my handicap is invisible, I denounced my conditions on my arrival. But my papers were waiting for me.
Samantha Unkel, 24, who comes from a nursing family, said she was happy to give me the vaccine. I felt the tears flow again behind my mask. She congratulated me while I took my vaccine selfie.
I felt a physical lightness from the shot. It’s a glimmer of joy during a dark, cold winter. Friends who likely won’t be vaccinated for many months said my vaccination encouraged them too: evidence of tangible progress.
At the end of February, I hope to drive back for my second dose. My life after the vaccine will be very similar to my life before. I will still wear my mask and my social distances, but I will do so with less fear.
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