One morning this week, while driving for 90 minutes on a highway, passing through frost-covered fields and white, shiny church towers, I finally cried. I was on my way to get the vaccine, and after almost a year of repressing emotions, they suddenly started to explode.
I qualified for the Missouri Phase 1B-Tier 2 vaccine because I have Crohn’s disease, an autoimmune disease that affects the intestinal tract, as well as psoriasis and psoriatic arthritis – conditions administered through a strict medication regimen that suppresses the immune system, leaving people like me particularly vulnerable to serious diseases caused by the coronavirus.
The virus seemed inevitable, as so many people did. At work, as editor of The New York Times, I read story after story about the loss of life and try to find words to help readers understand and process the number of victims of the pandemic. At home, the virus revealed my own health concerns. I moved from New York to Kansas City, Missouri, in June, after 100 days alone in my apartment, to be closer to the family in case I got infected.
Each step out of my apartment felt like a calculated risk.
Driving east on I-50 toward the Missouri State Fairgrounds in Sedalia, I felt all the emotions of the year exploding. Is that how hope feels?
Obtaining the vaccine is far from guaranteed, even for the two million qualifying missourians. On February 4, only 6.3% of the state’s six million residents received a dose of vaccine.
I set up alerts to see every tweet from Governor Mike Parson, the Kansas City and Jackson County health departments, and almost every hospital system in the area. A tweet is how I learned about vacancies at a state-run mass vaccination event.
On Monday, I signed up for my fourth vaccine list. On Tuesday afternoon, I received the call: My appointment would be the next day.
Inside the farm building turned into a vaccine clinic, I was one of the youngest patients. Worried about being refused at the door because my disability is invisible, I revealed my conditions when checking in. But my paperwork was there waiting for me.
Samantha Unkel, 24, who comes from a family of nurses, said she was excited to give me the vaccine. I felt tears welling up behind my mask again. She congratulated me while I took my selfie with the vaccine.
I felt a physical lightness since the shot. It is a flash of joy during a cold, dark winter. Friends who are unlikely to be vaccinated for many months said that my vaccination cheered them up too: evidence of tangible progress.
In late February, I hope to drive back for my second shot. My life after the vaccine will be very similar to my previous life. I will still be wearing my mask and social distance, but I will do it with less fear.