Shortly before the goal comes the news: no more vaccine. Was all the effort in vain? But the two nurses in front of me stay calm. It’s just a temporary bottleneck. So once again I take a seat on one of those screaming orange plastic chairs and do what I’ve been doing for over an hour: I’m waiting. The way to the final prick is long.
11 clock. Get out of the car and mask on. Today is my vaccination appointment. I checked all documents several times: the appointment confirmation, the declaration of consent, the information sheet, the anamnesis sheet, the identity card and the insurance card. Station one: Admission check in front of the hall. My appointment confirmation is checked here. In no time at all, the security man found my name on the list in the container, and it goes on in no time. But only three or four meters. There a younger woman stands lonely in the way – with eye-catching blue ankle boots. I ask what she is waiting for. She looks up briefly from her cell phone and points to the right. But the line begins on the left. So I walk past her and line up on the left. What I don’t know at this point is that this woman in the eye-catching ankle boots will be my companion for the next hour and a half. However: you don’t know yet either.
11.15 a.m.. I enter the tent. It’s nice and warm. The way to station two is long and is determined by construction tape: Similar to the airport, a path winds through the front part of the hall. Almost 30 people, at a distance and with FFP-2 masks, are already waiting inside. Every few meters there are plastic chairs and bistro tables as you know them from summer festivals. They are at a great height, just right to put my newspaper on and read. While most of them look into their cell phones, I read the newspaper. Belong to group 60+. The waiting worm slowly pushes on. “Please keep unlocking so that so many don’t have to stand outside in the cold,” the security man calls. Everyone follows, nobody grumbles.
11.35 a.m.. Station number two: admission. Here I have to give all the documents to a lady behind plexiglass. A signature is missing, as is my phone number. But: done in no time. It goes on, to the next line. I had lost sight of the woman with the eye-catching shoes, now I am discovering her again – as the second neighbor behind me. I’ve made up a place. Here the corridors are further, the very old keep arriving with their walkers. And again and again they are friendly led past the queue to the front, where they can sit and wait for the next stage.
11.50 a.m.. With a step through a full-body scanner that measures the temperature, I leave the waiting hall. The line to the next station is ridiculously short: four or five meters. At station number three, a standing desk with Plexiglas on top and a young man behind it, my data is checked, especially details of the anamnesis. “Medicines to thin the blood?” – “No!” – “Sit on chair number eleven.”
12:05 p.m.. A young woman in an aubergine-colored polo shirt calls out various numbers. The eleven too. That is the request for me. Together with three others, she leads us to the next department and points to four chairs that are staggered one behind the other. Reminds me of the trip to Jerusalem. Barely seated, it goes on. At ward number four, medical staff sit behind plexiglass and check the details of the anamnesis. No, no immune deficiency, just mild hay fever. Was that difficult? “Mild allergies are not a problem.” So on. “Please in row number four.”
12.15 p.m.. The supply of Moderna vaccine is here. A friendly nurse asks me to follow her into cubicle ten. Station number five. “It’s a bit slow today,” she says regretfully. She would like to have her left upper arm free. Sweater off, roll up shirt, she disinfects the area. “Now there is a little prick.” The needle is so fine that I can barely feel it. Put a plaster on – and you’re done. “Please report to the front of the check-out counter.” Done. We look at each other friendly. The first personal contact at the vaccination center. All my documents are scanned at one of the check-out counters. Then the man in his cabin says: “Please take a seat and wait a quarter of an hour.”
12:32 p.m.. It was nothing. Slightly delayed, I make my way to the last station: hand in routing slip in passing. I briefly noticed the young woman in the light blue ankle boots out of the corner of my eye. I think I made up one more place.
The author wants to remain anonymous.
#corona #vaccination #works #prick