I got the vaccine. Here’s what I learned
I felt very lucky Tuesday to get Pfizer’s coronavirus vaccine. It felt like my birthday, New Years Day and winning the lottery all rolled into one. I dressed up for my journey to get the jab. I even wore heels.
I also felt guilty as I thought of all the people in Florida’s long- term care facilities who still haven’t gotten the vaccine; the veterans who still haven’t heard when they might; and the 4 million other Floridians 65 and older who are stuck in the loop of refreshing a government website, redialing a phone number or emailing some faceless government address, desperate to find that illusive window when appointments might be made available again.
I also thought of seniors who can’t use a computer to book an appointment, and all the front- line teachers, grocery clerks, sheriffs’ deputies, dentists and other essential workers who face a months- long wait for their Get Out of Jail Safely card.
It’s only by chance that I was among the 26,465 people who secured an appointment with the Florida Department of Health in Broward — the state’s second largest county, with close to 2 million people — before its website announced all appointments were full. “Please check back to this website often as more sites and appointments will be added over the coming days and weeks,” it’s said ever since.
With short holiday staffing, I was posting letters to the editor on Sunday morning, when I saw a health department tweet that said its appointment website — www.browardcovidvaccine.com — was up and running again. I clicked the link, but the site was blank. I clicked again, and again, and again, and again. And somewhere in there, suddenly, the website loaded and asked if I was 65 or older.
I turned 65 in September, something I haven’t wanted to advertise. But I guess I’ve been kidding myself. When I told a couple people that I’d hit the vaccine lottery for the 65- plus crowd, no one seemed surprised by my age or asked, “How could that be?!”
The site asked me to select one of four county parks and the appointment time I preferred. I would have gone anywhere, anytime, but I was forced to pick something, so I randomly chose Central Broward Park in Lauderhill on Tuesday between 8: 10 and 8: 12 a. m, and hit “submit.”
Oh, no! It’s full! I selected another time increment. Oh, no. It’s full, too. I felt like I was throwing darts at the calendar, ever fearful the site would crash again. But, Bingo! The 9: 11 a. m. slot was open. My appointment was booked and I had an email to confirm it.
I tried again for my husband, Tom, a Vietnam veteran with Agent Orange health issues. We’d expected that he’d be first to get vaccinated because a few weeks back, the VA announced veterans would get first dibs. Tom had called the VA a couple of times, but hadn’t heard back. But in those 34 minutes that the health department’s website functioned Sunday after 9 a. m., I managed to secure an appointment for him, too.
Before leaving for my appointment, I called Sean Pitts, the Sun Sentinel’s photo editor, to see if a photographer might want to join me. I learned the health department doesn’t allow photos at its vaccination sites because of federal health privacy rules. Come on. We’re talking about something happening in a public place, on public property and in plain view. Though I was willing to have my photo taken, I didn’t feel up for a fight. So we agreed a photographer would meet me at the exit.
I’d never been to Central Broward Park, and so followed Google’s navigation to the Highway 441 entrance. Arriving ten minutes early, I found two police cars blocking the entrance. An officer told me to make a U- turn, take a left on Sunrise Boulevard, take another U- turn and enter the park just west of the Swap Shop. I’m not complaining, only saying: Better signage would have helped.
Arriving two minutes late for my time slot, I saw a line of cars spilling onto Sunrise. I joined the herd as the double lane squeezed into one, then snaked through a series of S- curves. Occasionally, someone tooted for someone else to advance a few feet. An hour in, I was regretting my heel choice.
At the three- hour mark, I was in the creep- and- crawl line of traffic around the athletic field when I spotted white tents ahead. I also saw bathroom facilities and people getting out of their cars, heading that way. I can’t say they were quick about it. They were seniors, after all. But I never heard a horn toot or saw someone pass a parked car. Approaching the end of a horrific year, the scene was steady, slow and quiet.
When I finally reached the small white tents where the shots were being administered, a nurse asked how I was. I was great. I was giddy. I was on cloud nine, really. I said I’d like to take a selfie of this historic moment. She didn’t object. She opened the car door for a better shot at my upper arm, then slipped in the needle, evoking barely a wince from me.
The time: 12: 26 p. m — three hours and 15 minutes after my preferred time.
The nurse gave me another gift, too, an appointment card to return in three weeks. For while the fist dose confers 50% protection against the coronavirus, the second dose gets you to the 95% threshold. I remain curious about the second dose, since Gov. Ron DeSantis insists that everything everyone has on hand must be administered, that nothing be held back for the second round.
Next, I advanced to the 15- minute area where you’re watched for adverse reactions. A paramedic asked how I was doing. I said I was great, and asked him if many people had had issues. A few, he said. He told me to expect a sore arm, though honestly, it’s not bad at all. I asked how soon the vaccine is protective. He didn’t know, but said he’d had his blood tested at the 14- day mark, and he had the antibodies.
Far behind me in line, my husband was forbidden from taking a selfie, which leads me to ask: If it’s OK for Florida Sen. Marco Rubio to have his photo taken while receiving the vaccine, why is not OK for Tom O’Hara? Perhaps skeptics would be swayed if they saw ordinary folks — not authority figures — posting photos of themselves getting the shot.
It took Tom almost five hours to get his shot, which begs another question: Who’s responsible for that miscalculation?
I have other questions, too, but Broward’s public health director refuses to answer questions about public health. Perhaps you have these same questions: When will the website re- open for more appointments? Why make people endlessly check back?
Why not give people a time, rather than make them play website roulette?
Why have people with appointments been turned away? We heard there weren’t enough doses on site. If you know how many people have made appointments, why isn’t there enough vaccine on site?
Why not more quickly check whether someone in line has an appointment? That check doesn’t come until three hours in. Some people say they made an appointment but never received a confirmation. Are they being turned away?
What about seniors who can’t use a computer? How are they supposed to secure an appointment?
Why did Broward cancel vaccine appointments this week for law enforcement officers? The department’s notice said only fire rescue/ EMS personnel wouldn’t be turned away. We heard the order came from the governor’s office. Did he not see last week’s news that the number of police officers who died in the line of duty in 2020 more than doubled from the year before, largely because of COVID- 19?
Also, if all Broward nursing home patients have been vaccinated — still a big if — why aren’t assisted- living patients now getting the vaccine? After all, 40 percent of Covid deaths occur in long- term care settings and the governor said people in these settings are the highest priority. You can understand why people find it hard to square that retirees in The Villages — and people like me — are getting vaccinated first.
And judging by our letters to the editors, people are furious that residents in certain 55- plus communities — like Century Village and John Knox Village — got exclusive access to the vaccine, while their neighbors were locked out. Why was that?
Though I played the game according to the rules, I hesitated to write about my experience getting the vaccine. Experience tells me that critics will pounce. But as a journalist, I have spent my adult life trying to tell the world what’s going on and speaking up for the voiceless.
As I exited the park, I saw our photographer, Joe Cavaretta, who had waited all those hours for me to re- appear. He took a picture of me and the big wad of gauze on my arm. Like all Sun Sentinel photographers, Joe also is trying to help you see what’s happening in our community. In the past year he’s covered protests, shootings, rallies, car accidents and more. He’s every bit an essential worker. But younger than me, he will likely wait months for his shot in the arm.
Something’s just not right here.