It seemed too good to be true. And it was.
On Wednesday, Feb. 17, at 11:40 a.m., I got an email from a friend telling me about a new federal COVID-19 vaccine program, along with a special password. This was a “test run” of a new vaccination site, with no age restrictions, but I had to act immediately to get an appointment.
Could this be real? Every newscast was reporting supply shortages. Dodger Stadium was shut down. But then again, this was a federal program, so maybe they had their own stockpile? It was worth a shot, right? Pun intended.
I clicked the link and answered all the questions, including my birthday, which is Nov. 11, 1957, meaning I’m two years younger than the required 65 for a Phase 1 injection. I fully expected to be skunked when I entered the magic password, but seconds later a text from @myturn.ca.gov appeared on my phone.
“Your appointment is confirmed! Hello Doug, your COVID-19 vaccination appointment has been successfully scheduled.”
And not just one appointment; I also snagged an appointment for the second shot! My lucky day, right?
Well, yes and no.
I do consider myself lucky to have gotten my first vaccination months before I ever dreamed possible, bringing me one step closer to seeing my 89-year-old mother, who I have not seen in nearly a year. But now I also know the shot that went in my arm was meant for someone else, and I can’t shake the creepy, gnawing feeling of guilt that I’ve become a pandemic-age Bruce Ismay sneaking into a lifeboat as the Titanic goes down.
That I was blissfully unaware I was cutting the line at Cal State L.A. doesn’t undo the reality; I had not just cut a line, but a lifeline, literally, with over 500,000 dead Americans and counting. It’s hard to celebrate my good fortune knowing it came at someone else’s expense.
And it’s not like I can give the vaccine back.
Hundreds, maybe thousands, who were not supposed to have access to the special passwords got them from friends, family members, co-workers or just through dumb luck like me. Suddenly, I had been given the pharmaceutical equivalent of a winning lottery ticket regardless of my race, age, profession, income level or health imperatives.
And that’s a problem.
The Cal State Los Angeles site was created specifically to make vaccines available to under-served communities. All data everywhere shows African Americans, Latinos and Native Americans are at greater risk from COVID-19 than guys like me. So, I’m fine with the government making a special effort to reach the people in greatest need. How then did I end up with the vaccine?
I’m not a person of color. I’m extra-White. Practically translucent. I live in the West Valley and drive a Chevy Impala for Pete’s sake. But I knew nothing about the intent of the Cal State program because neither the email I clicked or the MyTurn portal said anything about it.
Did I benefit from “White privilege” or was something else at play?
According to 23andMe, I’m 50% Luddite. Still, I am just tech savvy enough to access the web portal, answer all the questions and get two appointments. For many, that’s not possible. Language barriers or lack of Internet access represent an impenetrable challenge. When it comes to COVID-19, “digital privilege” is a matter of life and death.
Passwords for the new vaccination sites were to go only to targeted groups, including labor unions, nonprofits and faith-based organizations. Over a thousand groups were tasked with distributing codes. Asking that many people to keep a secret this juicy was doomed to fail. Passwords spread like QAnon conspiracies. Why there were no built-in filters to flag age discrepancies, lack of pre-existing conditions, clearly-nonessential employment status, race and ZIP codes — all truthfully disclosed by yours truly — are now part of the Monday morning quarterbacking already under way.
Meanwhile, there’s the matter of the second shot.
I called the California COVID-19 hotline (833-422-4255) and explained what happened and asked what I should do.
“That’s a matter of conscience,” said the voice on the other end. Which is the worst possible thing you can say to a guiltaholic.
Now I’m in a real pickle: If I keep my second shot appointment, I can take solace knowing I’m less of biohazard than I am today; or, I can cancel my appointment and wait my proper turn, which might be months away, weakening the efficacy of the first shot. The helpful hotline guy warned if I go the second route, I might have to start from scratch, meaning I’ll end up getting three shots and I’d still be getting a dose intended for someone else.
I know I did nothing intentionally wrong. I simply jumped at the chance to get the vaccine the whole world is hoping to get. Not every break in life has to be a bad one. But whoever said “guilt is a wasted emotion” never spent a day living inside my head.
Doug McIntyre’s column appears Sundays. He can be reached at: Doug@DougMcIntyre.com.
from Irvine Business Signs https://ift.tt/2NFHwba
via Irvine Sign Company
