DuBose: Surviving the first round of H1N1 vaccinations
By JENNIFER DuBOSE
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jenniferdubose@msn.com
Sick of dispensing antibacterial wipes, I decided to have my kids vaccinated against the H1N1 virus on Monday and I wasn’t about to let anything stand in my way.
Not even my own special brand of Mommy neurosis.
I debated all day about which way to go. There were three clinics in Kane County, and since we live in Batavia, it made sense to head to either the one in Aurora one or the one in St. Charles. In fact, the Aurora clinic was closer to our house by half a mile.
I was more familiar with the route to the St. Charles clinic, though, so I considered that one, as well.
But I had a pretty strong hunch that crowd would be larger, however, in part because of recent concerns about sick kids there.
It was enough to make my head spin – or, at least, my car. I turned around on my street no fewer than three times before becoming exasperated and just going with my original instinct to head to Aurora.
Another mom, who picked up her kids from our elementary school 10 minutes before I signed Holly out, headed to St. Charles where she was turned away by a police officer who stated there were already more children in line than could be vaccinated.
We were luckier, in spite of what became a three-hour ordeal, which began after the half-hour we spent waiting to get into the parking lot.
• • •
Channel 7’s helicopter hovered overhead as we trudged three blocks to the end of the line, where we estimated we were about two thousand people away from the clinic.
“What do I get for doing this?” Noah asked, after I made it clear we were staying until the bitter end.
“Good health,” I quipped.
That was debatable. I figured we’d probably all get sick standing in the chilly drizzle. And, right on cue, someone behind us coughed.
“You’re buying me that game I want,” Noah announced grimly.
“I want a tip,” Holly chimed in.
I shushed them and we quietly negotiated a settlement. I’m not proud.
Otherwise, it was a character-building opportunity – or, at least, a ‘teachable moment.’
We got a fabulous lesson in Spanish from our neighbors in line, and my children enlightened me about all of the Spanish swear words they know (a teachable moment for me).
“I’m gonna be overjoyed to get my shot because I’ll feel like I earned it,” Noah said later, as police turned on huge lamps to illuminate the darkening parking lot.
Thank goodness I forgot to bring water, as there wasn’t a single port-a-potty in sight.
Two hours and two minutes after we began our tedious, muddy march toward the doors of East High School, we made it inside the beautiful but crowded lobby, a perfect place for germs to brew.
“Isn’t this ironic, Mom,” my 11-year-old son observed, “that this is a health department clinic, but we’re all gonna get sick waiting in here?”
I’m sure no one would have minded rolling up their sleeves in the parking lot to avoid inhaling all of those germs. After waiting that long, there was no turning back. It was definitely a pick-your-poison situation.
“Only one shot and then it’s over?” Holly sighed, as she leaned against me for support.
“Yeah, today …” I mumbled. I didn’t have the heart to tell her about the H1N1 booster we’re told she’ll need four weeks after this one.
In spite of the mind-numbing wait, my little pixie still had energy to quietly cry, when it was her turn.
“We like the 1-2-3 method? You know, on 2?” I said with a wink to the student nurse who cleaned Holly’s arm with rubbing alcohol. “One, two (bam), three,” I counted.
“Because of her age, she’ll need …” she began.
“Yep. Got it,” I said, cutting her off.
• • •
Tuesday morning Holly buzzed with relief.
“That’s it, right? I’m done with the swine flu?” she asked, hopefully.
“Sorry sweetie, I didn’t want to have to tell you yet that you’ll need a booster shot in a few weeks, but I figure someone at school will spill the beans.”
The light went out in her eyes as her face crumpled and her eyes welled up. I felt like I’d betrayed her.
Later, when we pulled into the drop-off lane at school, Holly spotted a friend.
“Did I mention she was out sick for two days?” she said. “I’m gonna go touch her,” she announced with a wicked smile, as she slid out the door and ran off.
I howled with much needed laughter, all the way home. That’s my girl.
• Jennifer DuBose is a contributor for The Chronicle. She lives in Batavia with her husband, Todd, and their two children, Noah, 11, and Holly, 8. She can be reached at jenniferdubose@msn.com.
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