9:22 a.m.: I go through one admin protocol before queuing to see a nurse. I’m pretty sure I see someone from my curling club ahead of me, and now curling is one of those many routine activities that can’t be taken for granted.
9:25 a.m.: “My name is Lucie. I’m a nurse,” she says. Like so many nurses, she’s calm and multitasks. She manages the immediate queuing and movement of people in the area while taking further medical info from me and letting me know the vaccine I’m to get and its possible side effects.
9:30 a.m.: I’m happy to get my shot ‒ for me, for my family and friends, and I want to do my very small part to get back to some normalcy. It’s a tiny beginning to a world asunder, strewn with limitations, bereft now of so many fun activities, and bloated with ongoing tragic stories regarding business failures, dire physical and mental illness, and death.
Everything is quick and seamless throughout the vaccination process and I’m really only surprised at one thing: how much I appreciate the nurse’s gesture – her reassuring touch.
I take the river walk home. It’s sunnier, now. I come across new neighbours I’ve gotten to know. They’re personable and engaging and I enjoy our conversations. I then come across a young woman with her dog and we chat and she shares a story about her emigration to Canada and it’s fun to witness her intelligence and buoyancy (Bonus: I manage to pet Jazz, the dog, on-leash, two metres from the young woman).
Back home, I change and put my earlier clothes on the clothesline. COVID-19 thrives in cold but it apparently doesn’t like heat. I peg my shirt in the now-exploding spring sun (Take that, ugly coronavirus spike proteins!).
This content was originally published here.