In my ideal world, I would have gotten my COVID vaccine without the need for divine intervention.
However, being a mere mortal, I found myself over my head. No matter how many times a day I checked the COVID website, I kept getting the same message: “No available appointments.” My agony dragged on for months. Finally, an acquaintance referred me to a group of volunteers called The Vaccine Fairy Brigade.
Their superpower: Knowing exactly when different sites released new slots for appointments. At the stroke of midnight, my Vaccine Fairy got me an appointment for mid-March at the CVS in Chicopee.
I might have gotten my shot a month earlier if only I’d taken advantage of a technique I’ll call The Half Lie. A friend had found an ingenious way around the cyber roadblocks standing in the way of our 65- to 75-year-old age group. By checking off the box that said 75 and older, the site magically opened for appointments.
Once opened, honesty could prevail. Appointment seekers could give their correct date of birth and still get a slot. Hence the technique was only The Half Lie.
It provided a simple way to right a wrong. The state had approved our age group for the vaccine, so it seemed only fair that we should get appointments.
Even so, one of my friends stayed up all night, wrestling with her conscience, before deciding on The Half Lie. Open sesame! She got her appointment.
Ultimately, I decided to keep on waiting. Legislative heroes like Rep. Lindsay Sabadosa and Sen. Jo Comerford were fighting to increase the vaccine supply for western Massachusetts. I just needed to be patient. That’s what I told myself, anyway.
My first week after rejecting The Half Lie brought a wave of self-righteousness. I’d grown up with JFK beseeching us to not ask what our country could do for us; ask what we could do for our country. The least I could do was patiently wait my turn.
During Weeks 2 and 3, my idealism soured like milk left out of the refrigerator. Frustration curdled my patience. Every time I clicked on the vaccine site, the cyber gatekeeper blocked my advances. I felt like a jilted suitor.
By Week 4, I wished I had opted for The Half Lie. My boyfriend, Rick, and I were the only ones in our friend group who hadn’t gotten a shot. “It’s like you need an agent,” he said.
Rick found his connection through the girlfriend of one of his sons. A nurse, she helped him get an appointment. I begged to piggyback on his slot. No dice.
I turned to my surrogate big sister, Cousin Caryl, for help since she’s a goddess like no other. She shared the email address of her contact on the inside. The source emailed me back, “Just keep checking the website.” Hmmm, not what I wanted to hear.
Finally, an acquaintance referred me to the Vaccine Fairy Brigade. Within 24 hours, I had my appointment.
The actual shot was a breeze. Instead of pain, I felt a new burst of optimism. Winter had finally given way to spring. Surrounded by Hallmark greeting cards for my post-shot waiting period. I mused on the power of words.
Vaccine Volunteers. Vaccine Hunters. Vaccine Fairies. The three terms varied in levels of emotion. “Volunteer” sounded neutral. “Hunter” had a fighting edge to it. “Vaccine Fairy Brigade” combined the warlike with the mythological.
I recalled how fairies in tales of yore rescued lost travelers. The Fairy Godmother got Cinderella to the ball. And the tooth fairy had a mystique lacking in my parents.
As the 15 minutes drew to a close, I realized why I liked the term Vaccine Fairy Brigade so much. It tickled something within. My imaginative and fierce sides no longer needed to be separate. Together, they melded into my very own Vaccine Fairy Brigade!
I had the will to make my own appointment. I just lacked the right tools. As the old proverb goes: Give someone a fish, and she eats for a day. Give her a fishing pole, and she eats for a lifetime.
The Vaccine Fairy Brigade got me the fish, but I would have preferred my own fishing pole. Hopefully, as the supply of vaccine increases, it won’t be so hard to fish for an appointment. What a magical world it will be when the need for charity gives way to new channels for empowerment!
Joan Axelrod-Contrada is a writer who lives in Florence with her rescue mutt Desi. She can be reached at joanaxelrodcontrada@gmail.com.