JessicaRulestheUniverse.com

I put off registering for vaccination because I didn’t want to navigate the bureaucracy and I was waiting for the other vaccines to become available. I did not want to be in a crowd (even in non-pandemic times I am socially distant). Through my friend I signed up with a private provider whose Moderna stocks are supposed to arrive in June. I have hypertension (genes) which seems to have vanished with the deadline-chasing (advantage of finally focusing on fiction), but I’m on meds and in a priority group.

Last week friends started pushing me to get vaccinated because there were plenty of vaccines, not enough people signing up for them, and it was easy. Dorski pointed out that when the vaccine lists open up it might be harder to get an appointment. If you don’t get the kind you want, just get a booster later.

Early morning Wednesday I signed up online for the vaccine in Makati, and 18 hours later I got a text informing me of my appointment on Friday.

Drogon, my eldest

My appointment wasn’t till 1120, but I was up two hours earlier than usual because Drogon was meowing for his breakfast. I’d decreased the cats’ meal portions as they’re all overweight, and they have been cooperative but cranky in the morning. I am usually ridiculously early for appointments (neurosis from childhood), so I delayed leaving the house as much as I could but still got to Fort Bonifacio Elementary School half an hour ahead of my schedule. Maybe there’d be no-shows and I’d finish earlier?

Fort Bonifacio Elementary School has impressive facilities, better than UP (though I know that’s not a high bar). The guard at the main gate took my temperature, then pointed me to the first station, where my appointment was verified and my ID checked. At the second station someone looked at my medical certificate, and at the next I filled out some forms before someone took my blood pressure. After months of being borderline low, my bp was borderline high—either my systems were showing proof of comorbidity (our vocabulary increases with each catastrophe), or I have white coat syndrome (in this case blue scrubs and full PPE). More likely I was excited: after 15 months of inertia, liberation loomed!

At the next station someone looked at my documents and I learned that I would be getting the Astra Zeneca vaccine. Whose side effects Eric Clapton had complained about. (Clapton bitching about drugs given his history: absurd.) This is not the time to be brand-conscious, but I was happy to hear I would get AZ.

Next there was a 30-person queue on nice chairs set a meter apart. At each step there were one or two city employees reminding us to keep masks and face shields on and face forward to minimize risk of contagion. We were always comfortable and in the shade, with industrial fans and open doors and windows for proper ventilation. A radio was tuned to some 80s pop divas program, because it’s not real unless Debbie Gibson is singing “Lost In Your Eyes”. Then there were two songs by Whitney Houston and I braced myself for “Indayyyyayyaaayyy” but the queue was soon out of radio range. The line moved briskly, and the lady behind me was especially enthusiastic, giving the scene the air of musical chairs at a children’s party. The lady in front of me, in skinny jeans that were perilously low-rise, moved slowly, prompting encouragement from the enthusiastic one. “Sandali lang,” the skinny-jeaned lady complained, “Nadulas ako sa banyo, masakit ang balakang ko.” And then they were exchanging medical histories. It really felt like a children’s party, with titos holding clipboards directing us at each station.

Jacob, my middle cat

It seemed to me that there were too many stations, duplicate functions, the same questions asked over and over again and the same instructions repeated like a mantra. Then I remembered that I know nothing about Filipino social expectations. The point is not to finish as quickly as possible, but to make sure everyone understands what’s going on. This entails constantly reminding and reassuring people. And in many cases, promising aging macho men that the needle won’t hurt. Because everything here is personal.

After an hour in the queue, I was in the cold vaccination room. The nurses kindly offered to record the actual jabs on the vaccinees’ phones. “Should she be allowed to get the vaccine?” a lady asked, and even with her mask on you knew she was pointing at someone with her puckered lips (nguso). The subject was a thin lady whose lower legs and feet were black—signs of advanced diabetes. “She had an operation,” the subject’s companion said, “but it’s still like that.” A nurse assured the questioner that the doctors in the earlier stations had cleared the diabetic for vaccination. “But we were sitting down, how could they see?” the questioner continued. “And you know, some people lie.” Within the subject’s hearing!

Then it was my turn. I declined video and pointed to my left arm. I didn’t even feel the jab, it was so fast, then a bandage was applied. I’d been waiting for this for 15 months, and I barely noticed when it happened.

Another queue to have our temperatures taken and oximeters clamped on our fingers. Then a blood pressure reading, then someone talked to each of us about possible side effects and handed us 5 paracetamol tablets each just in case. Why not record the instructions and play them on a loop instead of repeating the same spiel 20 times an hour? Because the personal touch is vital in Filipino interactions. Also, it was a way of keeping everyone for 30 minutes to check for any adverse reactions to the vaccine.

Buffy the ex-ratslayer, my youngest

At the next station a man with a tablet recorded my information once again. This took a while because the wi-fi signal was faint. He looked at my ID and asked if I had other ID. “What’s wrong with it?” I said. The numbers were too tiny for him to read. I read them to him. Finally I was advised to return in exactly 3 months, which seemed long until I looked up the AZ vaccine and learned that 12 weeks is the optimal period before the second dose.

And I was done. Total time spent at the vaccine center: 2 hours. I went home, had lunch, didn’t notice any side effects other than a little tiredness. I did sleep extra-soundly that night, which could be from being woken up early, or from massive relief at getting vaccinated at last.

If you haven’t registered for vaccination with your local government unit, do it now.