― Joseph Conrad, Youth
Run for Your Life
Can’t say I like Pharmacies…doctors or hospitals. But here I am dutifully waiting at Shoppers Drug Mart to be shot—twice today—once for Covid and the other for the flu.
Never worried about seasonal vaccines before I turned fifty. It was a milestone, or so Josh Stepanian, the Department Chair, told me.
“We have to celebrate it Callum—have a party. It only happens once in lifetime.”
Josh meant well—even when I told him I preferred to keep it quiet, he dismissed my angst calling it middle-age phobia.
“Age is just a number,” he smiled reassuringly.
“Where do you want to have this party?” I croaked apprehensively.
“Where else—Milestones restaurant, of course.”
He took it as a joke. I took it as a death knell. Ask not for whom the bell tolls—it tolls for thee.
Maybe I’m being melodramatic but we only have so many ‘milestones’ before we leave youth behind and follow Time out of grace to old age.
Callum Atwood?
The pretty pharmacist smiled at me. I nodded mutely, my reveries interrupted by bleak reality.
Come this way.
I followed her dutifully into that good night of annual injections, probably for pneumonia next, followed by Shingles and God knows whatever else the medical establishment decides is suitable for seniors.
Seniors—I hate the word. I regretted filling out the form and docilely listed my birth year as 1972.
“You’re lucky, “ the girl smiled when she read it.
How’s that?”
“You now qualify for our Seniors’ Reward Program and a 20% discount every Thursday.”
Lucky me, I mused grimly. Now Thursdays will be Seniors’ Day and I won’t use my membership card and see if they can guess how old I am.
God, this is ridiculous! Hell, I just turned fifty and already they’re putting bedroom slippers on me. I hate this society. Actually, I have lovers’ quarrel with the universe—I want to go on living, I just don’t want to get old. Is that too much to ask?
Apparently.
”You haven’t had a Covid shot yet?” The pharmacist looks at me incredulously.
“Not yet, this is my first.”
“You were taking a risk considering your age and occupation.”
“I’m a professor of Literature—not exactly a high-risk profession.”
She frowned. “On the contrary, you are constantly interacting with staff and students—you do wear a mask in indoor settings, don’t you?”
“Can’t say as I have—they make me feel claustrophobic and cover up my boyish smile,” I say jokingly.
“I’d say that ship has sailed and wearing a mask not only protects you but prevents infecting others you come into contact with. It’s the responsible thing to do—like getting this Covid shot,” she says, jabbing me with a little more force than necessary.
I wince and a look of regret flashes across her features. “Sorry, you may feel a bit of swelling and tenderness at the injection site. We suggest you wait here for 15 minutes to make sure there’s no adverse reaction.”
“Adverse reaction?” I ask, a little shrilly. I hate it when my voice goes up when I get nervous,
“It’s nothing to worry about, Dear, the vaccine has been well tested. It’s an MRNA vax anyway—there’s no live virus.”
“Oh, so it just screws up my DNA, but at my age I guess I don’t have to worry about long term effects.”
Yeah, I know that was abrasive, but I hate being patronized. Only very young boys and harmless old men are called Dear... and, of course, by attractive young ladies.
Why? Because they pose no threat—or so they suppose.
“Are we done here?” I growl, trying to assert my virility.
I got that line from the Law and Order TV show and it’s aways uttered by some brash young hoodlum.
“Are you in a hurry?” she smiles.
As if, I muse inwardly while grinding my teeth. She probably thinks I’m retired and living on a pension.
I roll down my sleeve and get up to leave.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“I’m going out to the waiting area to wait dutifully for 15 minutes.”
“You haven’t had your flu shot. You can roll up your other sleeve and we’ll use your other arm for this one.”
Great, just great! She’s bruised one arm and now wants to render me helpless.
Note to self: Skip the seasonal flu shot next year, even if they text reminders.
Waiting 15 minutes in the small waiting area is torture.
You never notice how many people cough and sniffle but it figures—this is where the aged and sickos go to pass their time and patch up their failing bodies.
I envy Dorian Gray— so fair and ageless without, while within no hater of winter…
And no one the young girls would laugh about.