Between Two Shots

The morning of March 26, I take a Lyft 35 minutes from my urban New Jersey apartment to get my first Pfizer shot. I consciously hold back a relieved sob as I sit for the 15-minute waiting period.

That afternoon I find out a family member is positive for COVID.

That night my arm is mighty sore. The next day it is almost back to normal. One vaccine dose down. One to go.

****

I’m walking along the Hudson River the next morning when I get a phone call from Mom. Her voice is quaking.

“I’m trying to schedule a COVID test and I can’t without a computer. All I hear them say when I call is dot com, dot com, dot com.”

OK, I tell her. I’m out walking. I’ll be home soon and I’ll call you and help you schedule one.

Steeling myself, I stick to my plan to walk to a café to write in my journal. The words come in a furious rush: “I told you I was smarter than that asshole grifter with the gold toilets. That motherfucking prick. I am seething and must be calm. I’m not gonna have a blood pressure escalation over that son of a bitch.”

I’ve released my rage on the page.

I walk home, sit in front of my computer, and calmly call Mom. We try CVS.com. She’s impatient, in haughty disbelief that she has to deal with COVID because she’s…