THE VACCINE

We opened the pediatric Covid vaccine clinic the day after the FDA and CDC approved doses for children aged 5-12. It was a makeshift thing, just a few rooms in the basement of our building at the corner of Sunset and Vermont in East Hollywood.

The line wound its way up the stairs and around the corner, and the first patient was a 7 year old boy in a wheelchair wearing a cardinal and gold USC ball cap. His dad wore worn boots, a beard, jeans, and a rock and roll t-shirt. His mother wore black tights. Both parents had wide brimmed hats and and cups of coffee in their hands that they shuffled between each other while filling out the form on the clipboard we gave them.

I sat down, nodded to Janelle, then waved them towards me. The mom pushed the boy's chair forward, and I saw how sick he was: sallow skin, sunken cheeks, bald under his hat. If I had to guess, I'd say he had leukemia, and even though I was curious, the only thing I asked was his name.

“Liam,” he said through a bright red medical mask.

He had a patterned blanket on his lap: Zion National Park, iron oxide with sky blue and yellow foliage accents.

I took their clipboard, handed the information to Janelle and got out a vial of the vaccine, along with a needle.

“This is a 10 microgram dose of the Pfizer COVID-19 vaccine,” I said.

The boy looked at the vial and the needle. I could tell he was nervous, eyes growing wider by the second. We have a whole protocol for giving shots to children who are reluctant: we remind parents not to lie, and not to dwell on the needles too much. We try to focus on deep breathing, distractions with stuffys, toys, stickers. And if the parents can hold the children in their laps or at least hold their hand, even better.

His breathing thinned out, got faster. He was hyperventilating, his shoulder and chest going up and down, his whole body vibrating in his chair.

The dad noticed, spoke to him: “It's going to be OK, buddy.” Then to me: “I don't understand, he was fine waiting in line.”

The mom patted his shoulder: “You can do this. You've gotten so many shots already lately, what's one more?”

I prepared the dose, pulling the needle out.

“I don't like needles,” Liam said.

“See, such a small needle, not like the ones you're used to,” said the dad.

“Yeah, it probably won't hurt at all, you'll see,” said the mom.

I winced. You could see the boy taking huge gulps of air even through his mask. His little fists were little burgundy balls tight in his lap.

"Just relax, " I said, "Take deep breathes."

He took his hands out of his lap and began shaking them in the air, flapping them like a bird's wings.

"It's gonna hurt, it's gonna hurt so bad!"

“It's not going to hurt,” the mom said.

“We try not to use the word 'hurt',” I said to the mom.

"Honey," the mom said, "it will just take a minute and then we'll be done ok?"

"I can't do it," he said.

"Do you want to play on my phone?" The dad asked, looking up while he was checking it.

He shook his head, he was almost vibrating in his chair.

"C'mon honey, let's just get this done real quick and then we can get some Pinkberry on the way home."

"It's going to kill me!" he said.

I looked at the long line behind him, growing bigger by the minute.

"Liam, can you be a big boy for me?"

I offered him a superhero sticker. A roll of them.

“Can you be proud like Black Panther? Or tough like Iron man? How about brave like Spiderman?”

He shook his head, refused the stickers. I got out the bag of lollipops and offered him a watermelon one, but he wasn't having that either.

"I can't I can't I cant I can't I can't," he said.

“Do you have a toy or a stuffed animal he could hold?” I asked.

The mom shook her head. I put the shot back on the tray.

"We'll need you to step away, stay in the waiting area until he's ready. Just until he's calmed down."

“But we were the first ones in line,” the mom protested.

"It’s no problem," the dad said. They wheeled Liam over to the plastic maroon chairs and sat, the dad's eyes still glued to this phone.

I looked at the line in front of me. They were out the door now, bunched closer to each other, ignoring the 6 foot rule.

“Mercy,” I said under my breath, then motioned for a new patient.

The work continued. I felt like Santa Claus, asking kids what they were going to do once they were vaccinated, feeling vicarious thrills from their excitement, the pent up energy from almost 2 years.

In between patients I'd peek a look over the computer kiosk to see images of Liam: crying in his mom's lap, playing on his dad's phone, being bribed by a piece of bright pink bubble gum.

The mom caught my eye at one point, so I waved her over.

"How's he doing?" I asked.

"He's still being stubborn."

"It's OK, it happens," I said. "You can always come back tomorrow or another day."

"I know," she said. "It's just..."

"What?"

"He got Covid last year and well, we really just want him to get the shot as soon as possible so he can we protected from getting it again. His health just has been the same since. We just want to do the best for our baby, you know?"

A few tears streamed down, hit her mask. She wiped them away.

The dad walked up.

“What's up?” he said, putting his phone back in his pocket.

“I just really want to get this done today,” the mom said.

“It seems like he's not really into it,” the dad said.

“He's got to get it today,” she said.

“We could always come back?” the dad offered.

“We're not coming back,” she said. “We're doing this today, no matter what.”

The dad raised his hands in the air in surrender, and they walked back to their area in the waiting room.

“Let me know when he's ready,” I called after them.

A young girl had seen the struggle with Liam and offered to hold his hand while he got the shot. I told her that was nice of her, and if she wanted to do that, she should go over to Liam himself and ask him. I watched her as I prepared the next vial, and saw the body language of the girl asking, Liam shaking his head, the girl shrugging, and walking away to sit in her own chair to wait those 15 minutes.

Eventually, the parents came back with Liam, wheeling him to the front of the line.

“He still says he's not ready, but I think we should try again,” the mom said.

“I still say we shouldn't force it,” said the dad.

I stood, moved closer to them and spoke in a low voice.

“One thing that might help,” I said, “Is if you share your own experience getting vaccinated. How it didn't really hurt or only hurt for a moment, and you had a little arm soreness, but that was it. Sharing our own experiences can really help our children process theirs, OK?”

Silence. The parent's looked at each other.

“Well, we would, but --”

I looked at each of them in turn.

“But what?”

“Well, we're not vaccinated.”

I instinctively took a step back from them.

“You're not vaccinated?” I asked, in a voice that was louder than I anticipated.

“Yeah, I mean, I just don't know that I trust it, you know? Big pharma and all that.”

“I'm not ready to do it. I've gotten a lot of feedback from both sides and I'm just not ready.”

“If you're not vaccinated, then why do you expect your son to get vaccinated?”

“Everyone is getting Omicron and whatever this new variant is anyway, so what's the difference if you get the jab or not anymore? It's different for Liam, his immune system is weakened from the chemo and all that, and he's got, what do you guys call it, co-morbidities?”

“Yeah, pre-existing conditions. The two of us don't have that, we're perfectly healthy. I mean, I just ran a marathon last month.”

“Right, and I do cross-fit, so...”

“Plus, we get tested all the time. I get tested for work every week.”

“I just got tested yesterday.”

“See, it's not like we're being irresponsible.”

“Right,” I said. I sighed and sat down.

“Liam,” the dad said. “It's time to stop this and get your shot, OK?”

“You can do this, buddy,” the mom said.

I reached over to prepare his needle and vial, and that's when he suddenly swiped his hand his hand across my tray to knock everything over, spilling medical supplies all over the ground.

As much as he was being a pain in the ass, for some reason I adored the boy, that Liam, and felt protective of him. Plus, part of me respected his stubbornness, the fire I saw burning in his eyes, the cheeks I knew would turn rosy again one day. But I still wasn't going to let him leave there that day without being vaccinated.

“Janelle,” I said. “Call the orderlies.”

They came in a minute. Liam thrashed in his chair.

“What's going on?” the mom asked.

“Take him across the hall,” I said.

“What’s across the hall?” the dad asked.

“That’s where we strap him down.”

“Is that necessary?” the dad asked.

“My poor boy,” the mom said.

The two orderlies picked the thin boy up from his chair and carrying him to a blank, empty room with a gurney. There were scarlet straps of nylon with big buckles and they placed the wriggling boy on the white sheets. He moved around and cried so much he almost fell on the floor, until the bigger orderlies yelled and the parents to each take a leg.

The four of them, working in tandem, each with one of the boy's appendages, forced him still while I administered the vaccine. It only took a few seconds. Then they let him go. The orderlies left as quick as they came. I took a deep breath. The parents stood in silence.

Liam sat up. His face was flushed, every limb crimson with marks from where they had held him down. He blinked his eyes, looked around.

“You know what?” he said, his voice suddenly chipper. “That actually wasn’t so bad.”

His ball cap had fallen on the floor during the struggle. He stood now, picked it up, put it back on his bald head.

The dad picked his son up and carried him, and four of us walked back to the makeshift shot room. I motioned for them to take their seats in the waiting room, and sat down in my own chair.

As Liam got himself settled, I filled out, stamped, and handed him his new fresh white vaccine card.

“I'm really sorry for the way I acted,” he said.

Holding back tears, I looked at his disease-stricken face, and all I felt was love.

“It's OK, little man,” I said. “No one likes getting shots. See you in three weeks.”

“See you in three weeks,” he repeated, and wheeled himself away.

Then I beckoned the next one.