A Clinical View

I’ve had the opportunity to receive a COVID vaccination as well as to take someone to get theirs. I have been able to also attend these events in two separate counties; San Bernardino and Santa Barbara. While one was run by the County of San Bernardino and used the Ontario Convention Center, the other was provided by Cottage Hospital and held outdoors at the Goleta Valley Cottage Hospital using the parking lots. A third I attended was also held in San Bernardino County at the IEHP office building, a rather large but extremely empty headquarters.

The first rather obvious difference is the fact that Cottage held their clinic outdoors, using parking lots  as tent cities and directing traffic so people in line will hopefully not back into the car behind them, or bump the one in front of them. These were very slow or non-moving lines for the most part.

A traffic monitor out my driver’s side window is waving me to pull forward while on the opposite right side of the vehicle my mother is in the process of getting vaccinated. To my left, her orange flag is angrily pointing to where she wants me to move the truck to. Inside and on the right side everyone is yelling ‘don’t move!!’, ‘I’m giving her a shot!!’ and I think I might have heard ‘don’t fucking move an inch!!’. My foot remained firmly planted on the brake pedal.

I must say, maybe the monitor on my left just couldn’t see the nurse on the right side of the truck and that she was giving my mother the vaccination, I blame it on taking the truck. That’s another story as in coming to Santa Barbara for years I always bring the keys to the Honda. But not this one time. Not the one time that having the Honda would be the definite vehicle of choice. At any rate maybe the size of the truck blocked her vision but she seemed to wave her flag more vividly and glare at me angrily as we just sat there, ‘not moving a fucking inch’. My foot firmly planted on the brake pedal. I also had a sense of enjoyment actually watching her get more frustrated with the fact that I just sat there, not moving, not following to where her flag was now stabbing, but I had a grin on my face knowing full well there was nothing she could say or do that was going to change this situation. Her frustration was only going to grow.

The process in San Bernardino was quite different. IEHP provided a fast initial check-in then a second stop for the first available nursing station. There was no waiting on this particular day, but I had the impression this day was no different than previous clinics they had held, all quite organized. Following the injection you are scheduled for your 2nd dose in approximately 3 weeks. In both of the San Bernardino clinics the date receiving the 2nd dose gets scheduled while you are waiting out the observation period.

Not in Santa Barbara. Well at least not by Cottage Hospital. When I inquired about the 2nd dose I was told; ‘you’ll hear from us in three to six weeks’. Not important what I said next, I’m only trying to illustrate the differences here. I then Googled the ‘six week’ period as everything I had heard, read, knew and believed was that you were supposed to receive the 2nd dose in three weeks. Since when did six enter into the pandemic picture?

Everyone seemed to be generally happy at all three events which is more important than you may think. I assume everyone at the San Bernardino County events was getting paid. From the girls at the entrance gate, the guy taking my digital temperature, the registration desk, the people movers monitoring the lines and finally those administering the needle. Nurses? Aides? I’m not sure what level of experience is required, and under these circumstances what requirements may be passed aside. But I am sure everyone was getting paid something for their time and service. That’s one reason to seem happy, but I think there’s another reason that should actually be a requirement… It’s a bloody pandemic! It should, at least to me, be a bit frightening to everyone, especially all of us cattle about to be injected. So it does help when those in charge, those who are providing the service and instructions as to what to do next, where to step and when, should be pleasant and not add to anyone’s discomfort by seemingly being unhappy to be there. Think about it, I really didn’t want to ‘have’ to be there, but it’s a fucking pandemic, it tends to cause some changes in our daily lives.

But the Santa Barbara clinic wasn’t just for having a cheery attitude, it was circus time volunteerism. There were hundreds of volunteers, or so it seemed. More volunteers than people coming for a vaccine. It starts immediately after you pull into the street to enter the parking lot. Signs, billboards alerting you to ENTER here for the vaccination clinic. Almost immediately you are stopped and asked if you are here for the clinic. As if I may have possibly not seen any of the signs and directions, some with big arrows indicating a left turn made here equals clinic, or maybe I did see them, read them but chose to ignore them. …’yes, we are here for the clinic’.

Onward, but only about 25 feet when stopped and asked again.  ‘yes, we are here for the clinic’. This person then scans the parking lot which through my windshield shows six distinct, although sparsely lined with orange cones, but more than making up for it with an orange dressed volunteer. Some with traffic flags. I could immediately see lane one had a backup, lane two was fairly long, lanes three and four hardly had lines, lane five had a few in line and lane six was similar to lanes three and four. I could see all this in just one quick glance. I felt confident in my ability to pick a lane without causing some sort of parking lot disaster, nothing that would cause need to call AAA towing or prevent the drive-thru clinic in continuing to provide service to the community for the rest of the day. No one sang it better than Jimmy Cliff; ‘I can see clearly now…’ And that was what I was expecting to hear, but this is what I was told; ‘move up to the next person and he’ll direct you which lane to enter.’ What?!! Move up twenty-five feet to be told which lane to get in?!! Just look. Any idiot could tell you 3, 4 and 6 are the shortest.’ I guess I was wrong, not these folks. I drive up twenty-five feet, the guy scans the lanes and says: ‘go to lane six’. Even odds on that bet.

These are long lanes. Although unlike the lines at Disney, airport check-in or the Garden Buffet at the Flamingo these are straightforward. Once past the ‘instruction’ stops, there’s an injection stage and finally the observation stage, all sections of one single lane. There are volunteers everywhere, sitting in tents looking at papers or a laptop. Some are eating lunch or on break. Hundreds maybe thousands are walking around. Alongside your vehicle or cutting in front or in back of it, which is okay because we are stopped, waiting. We are waiting for the next instruction to be told to move 25 feet forward.

Volunteers are everywhere. Asking me the same questions regarding who is getting a vaccine, asking other volunteers who is processing this vehicle, asking if all paperwork is complete, asking who is getting a vaccine today (yes, I know but this was asked more than once). It seems like forever but I attribute that to what appears to be more confusion than organization. The vaccination finally arrives and administered through the open car window but of course with another round of the same questions. Done. Move up 25 feet and wait out the observation stage. An injection time was written on the window and we are told by one volunteer the wait will be 15 minutes, but that volunteer apparently wasn’t assigned to dictate the observation time. How do I know that? Because the person who was in charge of figuring out what an added 20 minutes equals to the time stamp scribbled on the window was a different volunteer. He would literally run up and down the line of cars just having conversation and telling us how many more minutes we had to sit and wait, how he was hungry, the weather, is anyone experiencing side effects, the number of people who came for a shot, and more. I really can’t remember as I tuned him out after realizing that his answer to the math problem of: injection time + 20 minutes was not correct, but what was the point in arguing. I watched him in the side mirror running up and down the line of cars, stopping randomly to have a conversation at some vehicle window. I pictured him like a carhop on roller skates with a burger, shake and fries who forgot which car had placed the order.

I had read a story in the Santa Barbara Independent published about an earlier clinic held at this very spot, the GVCH, and in it a volunteer had been interviewed.

“This is my 13th time volunteering because it’s been so much fun,” said Kate Ford, president of the Santa Barbara School Board,..”

Wait. What. “because it’s been so much fun.” Are you serious?  Fun?  The people in the cars are here because they wan’t to maybe try and save their lives by getting a vaccine with a drug that’s only been approved under a emergency use authorization (EUA) and has not gone through a FDA approval process as yet.

Ford also said that many of the older folks who get vaccinated are grateful and sometimes bring gifts to the volunteers, like flowers, See’s Candies, or lollipops.  …well, fuck me for not bringing flowers or a bottle of wine. I guess I was just preoccupied.

It’s starting to all make sense. These are the people who need to be a participant. Anything. They are missing their social get-togethers, really missing them a lot. The clinic provides them a substitute solution. Their like the dogs on the beach when you can finally take the leash off. I’m looking out the side mirror and there he is. Running, stopping, bending over or squatting outside their car window, he’ll be here soon.