Like most Canadians, I was eager for the COVID 19 vaccine rollout — it was our way out of the pandemic and back to normalcy. At 33 years old, with no reason to be prioritized, I was not first in line. While I waited my turn, I watched the process unfold. First, my husband, who works in health care, got his first dose.
As the age priority system worked its way down the line, my parents, in-laws, friends and siblings followed suit. It was May when I got the text that I was free to go forward and book my own first dose at a vaccine clinic.
The jab itself was painless. But within 10 minutes of my mandatory post-shot waiting period, my tongue felt thick and tingled as though I had devoured multiple bags of salt and vinegar chips. I quickly lost the ability to swallow and became dizzy.
A doctor then put a shot of epinephrine into my leg as I lay behind the observation curtain of the vaccination centre. And as I lay there, convulsing from the adrenaline coursing through my body, the doctor said, "You'll probably have to have your second dose at a hospital."
Everything seemed to stop at that moment. I blinked, sure that he was joking but also struck by the earnest look on his face that suggested otherwise.
. . . . . . I half-grimaced through chattering teeth and said "It's cute that you think I'm going to do this again." That was when the ambulance showed up.