Double Shot

“The very first Easter taught us this: that life never ends and love never dies.” – Kate McGahan

Gosh, that hurts.

I got my second coronavirus vaccine shot yesterday and my arm is still smarting.

But it’s Easter Sunday and there is a feeling of rebirth in the air, so I’ll gladly take my lumps if it means escaping from Covid Hell any time soon.

And this is the day where we celebrate the man who suffered all manner of hideous abuse and rose from the dead. A sore arm ain’t so bad in comparison.

Once again I went down to NYU Langone in Sunset Park for my injection.

I bounded into the waiting room Saturday morning all ready for a long day of doing nothing, which it was what happened on my first go-round.

The place had been mobbed that time and I fully expected to be stuck in the jammed facility until early afternoon.

I had packed a bag with the New York Times, a novel I’ve been reading, my journal and my phone charger. People who go on camping trips don't pack this much stuff.

I had been crabby and anxious all morning as my mind—as usual—cranked out a series of scary scenarios about my appointment.

What if I’m late and they won’t give me the second shot? What if the second shot makes me sick?

And—the big one—what if my notoriously weak kidneys fail me and I am forced to answer the call of nature just as the nurse calls my name?

The only question I didn’t ask is why the hell do I keep doing this to myself?

Why I do I constantly concoct all manner of monstrous possibilities out of thin air?

It’s like the old joke about the guy who keeps bashing himself in the head with a hammer.

When asked why he’s doing this, he says “because it feels so good when I stop.”

I decided to take some control on Saturday morning as I made sure to take it easy on the liquids before I left and hit the loo as soon as I arrived.

Then, into the waiting room I went…

Do I have to really have to tell you what happened next?

Well, of course, I walked through the doorway and a looked around at a roomful of empty chairs.

Arms and the Man

There were more hospital staff in the room than people. I signed in on one the computers, parked my keester on the nearest seat for about 30 seconds, and then one of the nurses called my name.

I went into the injection room, positioned my butt over a second chair when this young woman waved me over to her desk.

“Don’t sit down!” she said with a chuckle.

No argument from me. I’ll take my needle standing on my head if I have to. I skated on over and rolled up my sleeve.

They got all my information right this time and the nurse checked my birth date to make sure it was yours truly sitting before her.

“Yes, that’s correct,” I said. “You still have time to get me a birthday present.”

“I’m giving you an early present,” she said and sank the needle into my arm. “Now you’re all done and you don’t have to come back.”

“Great,” I said, “you know I love ya, but I can’t keep hanging around here.”

I bounced over to the after-shot corral for the 20-minute countdown. I read my book and ran down the clock.

When I didn’t keel over or turn into a wombat, I promptly got the hell out of there.

I spent Easter Sunday with my sister and auntie, eating, drinking, talking and eating some more.

When it was time to split, I lightly touched my auntie on the head.

“Maybe next Easter we won’t need masks,” she said.

Let’s hope so. My arms can't take much more.