When I drove 90 minutes on a highway one morning this week, past frost-covered fields and bright white church towers, I finally cried. I was on my way to get the vaccine, and after nearly a year of emotional upheaval, they suddenly gave up.
I qualified for the vaccine in Missouri’s Phase 1B Tier 2 because I have Crohn’s disease, an autoimmune disease that affects the intestinal tract, as well as psoriasis and psoriatic arthritis – conditions that are managed through a rigid schedule for medicines that suppress the immune system, leaving people. as I am particularly vulnerable to serious diseases due to the coronavirus.
The virus felt inevitable, as for so many people. Working as an editor at The New York Times, I read story after story about loss of life and try to find words to help readers understand and process the toll of the pandemic. At home, the virus exposed my own health problems. In June, after 100 days alone in my apartment, I moved from New York to Kansas City, Mo., to be closer to my family if I became infected.
Every step outside my apartment feels like a calculated risk.
As I drive east on I-50 to the Missouri State Fairgrounds in Sedalia, I feel all the emotions of the year erupt. Could this be how hope feels?
Getting a vaccine is far from guaranteed, even for those two million Missourians who qualify. As of Feb. 4, only 6.3 percent of the state’s six million residents received one vaccine dose.
I put up warnings to see every tweet from the government Mike Parson, the health departments in Kansas City and Jackson County and almost every hospital system in the area. A tweet is how I learned about openings during a state-run mass vaccination event.
On Monday, I reported my fourth vaccine list. Tuesday afternoon I got the call: my appointment would be the next day.
I was one of the youngest patients in the vaccination clinic in the agricultural building. I was worried that I would be turned away at the door because my disability was invisible, and I rocked my conditions when I checked in. But my paperwork was waiting for me.
Samantha Unkel, 24, who comes from a family of nurses, said she was excited to give me the vaccine. I feel the tears well up again behind my mask. She congratulated me when I took my vaccination selfie.
I feel a physical lightness since the shot. It’s a spark of joy during a dark and cold winter. Friends who most likely will not be vaccinated for months said that my vaccination cheered them on as well: evidence of tangible progress.
At the end of February I hope to drive back for my second dose. My life after vaccination will look a lot like my life before. I will still wear my mask and take social distance, but I will do it with less fear.