Shell Shocked: The social ostracism of the unvaccinated
There’s a breed of people currently around who stand out from the crowd. They are the “Unvaccinated.”
You get a phone call from a friend of yours and the first thing he asks is “Have you been vaccinated yet?”
You say “No, I haven’t. I’ve been trying like mad to get on a list, any list, that will register me for the vaccine. I’ve gotten up at 3 a.m. to get on a Website that has a small inventory of vaccines available and it’s first come first served. I’ve gotten on several local health department phone numbers that promise the same thing but the moment I get on I get a message that all vaccines are accounted for so try again another time. I can almost hear snickering in the background from the person who made that automated call.”
There’s a long pause on your friend’s line. Finally, he says “That’s just too bad. I’ve already gotten both my vaccines and I feel like a million dollars. A big load has been lifted off me. I can now do anything I want to do — travel, eat in restaurants, go out in crowds. I’m free at last, free at last.”
What your friend is really thinking is you nerd, why can’t you find a way to get vaccinated. You must be inventive. You might even have to sacrifice your first born. No one will come near you until you’re vaccinated. I for one am more than willing to give up our friendship just to be safe. If you don’t get this vaccine within the next three months I never want to see you again.
Not being able to read your friend’s mind you say, “I’m hoping that vaccine production and distribution will increase during the coming weeks so that I can get a jump on those other poor humans out there who are currently in the wilderness and experiencing anxiety and depression every waking moment — as I am now. I’m currently so cautious that I wear a mask even when I’m totally alone at home. No use taking any chances. And I’m totally jealous and envious of anyone I speak to who tells me they’ve already gotten vaccinated. I say to myself why them and not me? Are they more important than I am. Who did they bribe to get ahead of the rest of us?”
My friend attempts to cheer me up. “Not to worry. You’ll be getting the vaccine when it’s your turn. But you sure can try hard to get on that line. Don’t you know any bigwigs in hospitals or the pharma companies or in government? You’ve got to have an ace up your sleeve. Otherwise, you can be waiting forever and have to hibernate at home.”
This doesn’t cheer me up. My cabin fever has been lasting so long that it will be Groundhog Day when I stick my head out. I’m now so claustrophobic that I’m praying that a mouse shows up to keep me company. Maybe even a friendly cockroach.
But I try to sound cheerful to my gleeful, selfish friend. “Oh, I’ll get it soon enough. It’ll be good to see another human being. I assume there are still people on this earth. The only people I’ve seen are those on TV news and in my loneliness, I call them all my brothers and sisters. If I don’t get out of this house anytime soon I will give myself a Covid vaccine injection using chocolate syrup.”
My friend begins to cringe. “You’ve changed a lot since I spoke to you last. It’s not only cabin fever but the beginnings of Coviditis, the sister disease to Covid. Coviditis is a condition that stimulates the ozone layers in your head to isolate you from the rest of humanity making you think that you’re the next to last person on earth — me being the other one. You can nip this illness in the bud by having three shot glasses of Grey Goose along with a very sour lemon.”
I hung up on my friend so that I could pretend that I was the only person left on earth. And then the phone rang. A Lee Health Department agent was calling to arrange my first vaccine injection.