DECEMBER 30, 2022 – (Cont.) Just as the train pulled to a stop at the closest station, my tires gripped, shooting my “bubble car” past the tracks and fishtailing across the street in front of oncoming traffic. Ahead lay the clinic with a “Covid Vaccinations Here” sign sticking out of a snowbank near the entrance. The adjacent parking lot was empty—to my relief, now that I was a half hour late. As I pulled into a random slot, my first thought was about Season Three of Jack Ryan, which my wife and I binge-watched recently: I could never be a CIA operative à la Jack Ryan or Jim Greer—I panic too easily in the path of an (ostensibly) oncoming train.
The clinic was staffed by two nurses, who did double-duty, serving as receptionists and needle wielders. No other patients were present. I was easily accommodated, and “Dan,” the nurse I drew, was a five-star player, notably knowledgeable about Covid and the vaccine. He was so expert with the needle I asked him as he applied the band-aid, “Are you sure you delivered the shot?”
Since no one else was in line, I chatted with Dan at length, learned his life story and gained further insight into his dedication. Surprisingly, ahead of my appointment, he’d reviewed my records and was well-acquainted with my stem cell procedure and vaccine history (even pre-dating my diagnosis). He went the extra mile and “worked the system” doggedly to schedule my third (yes, third, for transplant patients) Covid shot and bivalent booster.
By the time I exited the clinic, the sun was sliding toward the horizon. Another day fading. I pictured the earth from 250,000 miles away—a green-blue globe, encircled by broken whisps of white, one-half of the precious sphere illuminated, the other half dark, with blurry transition between the two. In that zone of uncertainty is where I seemed to be, figuratively as well as actually.
I drove home without incident, but after pulling into the driveway, I remained in the car for some self-examination. Why had I become so “undone”? Has my adaptation masked a counter-development of inflexibility? Am I now a stranger in a world (beyond the medical clinics) with which I have no direct, face-to-face engagement except by digital means? When can I re-enter society, shake hands, embrace, share a plate of cheese and crackers and pour some wine for guests inside our home? And most important of all, when can I sit at a table with our granddaughter and draw pictures together or watch her dance across our living room to the music of Augustin Hadelich’s Fantasia dei Gatti?
A chilling fear arose: does some emotional volcano lie beneath my usual calm? Was my meltdown a troubling harbinger of eruptive ash and lava?
The following morning I had a regularly video session with my therapist who’s coached me through the past year. He knows me well. When I described my “meltdown” and incipient fear, he wasn’t alarmed. He reassured me by getting me to reassure myself. My short outburst was a fast-moving thunderstorm, no devasting earthquake or exploding volcano. At the conclusion of our session, he wished me a happy new year, and I, of course, reciprocated. I then grabbed my skis and headed out . . . for my 32nd day of the ski season.
All’s well that ends well—inside and outside the bubble.
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
