There were reminders everywhere I looked or listened to get my flu shot in the fall of 2019. I heed the invitation each year, as my Great Uncle died of the flu in 1918 while a student at Cornell. The “senior serum” vaccine was nowhere to be found locally, and there was none scheduled for delivery.
After calling around within an hour’s drive, only the pharmacy at Hannaford’s Supermarket in Morrisville was willing to take my name, call me when the vaccine arrived, and save a dose until I showed up.
Hannaford’s was buzzing when I walked in two weeks later. The pharmacy was busy. Only one pharmacist was working. I had to wait. He finally called my name. There was paperwork. I was not a client, so we started from the beginning—family history, medical records, allergies, on-and-on. Then the flu shot specifics. I’m OK with eggs. I understand the risk—you know the drill.
Having satisfied the government and health insurance requirements, the Pharmacist took me into the “Consultation Room.” We exchanged some Graceful pleasantries and quickly found things we have in common, my favorite way of making friends with strangers.
He gave me my shot, and we re-entered the swarm of the store. I put on my coat and turned to say “thank you.” The Pharmacist looked harried.
I leaned gently toward him and asked, “Do you need a hug?”
He nodded in the affirmative, and we gave each other a good, long hug. As I turned to leave, he said, “Thanks. I’ve never been hugged by a person I’ve shot.”
I had occasion two weeks later to see then former Vice President Joe Biden. We had met before, and this time too we exchanged a warm, consensual hug. Then I told him my flu shot story. Thanks to his friendly nature and in part to his detractors, now that I know I can ask permission, I hug far more strangers.
Now President Biden is making the COVID-19 vaccine flow, and this time it pays to be senior. My first shot was on February 17, 2021 at the High School. As I waited to be assigned to a station in the gymnasium, masked and socially distanced, I discovered the mystery man coordinating the process was a few years older than I am. I am planning my 50th college reunion. He had his a few years back. Together, we found a poem in the form of a good reunion question: “What were you clueless about 50 years ago that you feel wise about now?”
I was called to Table One for my shot and never heard his answer. The nurse was gentle. Her assistant put a sticker on my jacket with the time I was allowed to leave after the fifteen-minute observation time. I looked at it and asked, “I may have some talents, but can I really leave two hours before I get here?” The woman hit her forehead with her gloved hand. “You’re a teacher, I can tell,” she replied, frustrated with herself. “Not in a classroom,” I smiled.
I got my second dose on March 17, St. Patrick’s Day. I wore green and orange in the spirit of reconciliation. I quickly answered all the questions I now know by heart and my number was called. Denis gave me my shot. I did not even feel his needle. “I can tell you’re a nurse,” he said. “Not in a hospital,” I smiled. I told him that just a month ago I’d been a teacher. We laughed. I explained Graceful Mischief, and he wrote it down.
I could have hugged him.