A Dopamine Rush
I opened up my laptop and stared at the screen in disbelief. There, in bold type, was a message from our local health department confirming that I had been approved to receive my first COVID vaccination the very next day. I knew that none of the other “1-B’s” in my Illinois social circle had yet succeeded in securing one of these “golden tickets”—which is the most current media slang for a vaccine “win.” I leaned forward, unable to recall ever scoring anything bigger than a dime-store cake pan at a county fair, and read the message twice more.
Huh? quickly shifted to Wow! when the reality of my good fortune set in. It was an excitement mingled with relief. Soon, however, a swell of anxiety and guilt swept into the mix: Would the convention center run out of doses as I waited in line? And what about people who were really old, not merely 67, like me? Or sick? Or who had no access to a computer, thus slimming their chances for snagging a slot?
Despite my fears, I printed a copy of the eligibility form, mumbling to myself the kind of advice you’d expect to glean from a self-help book, like how important it is to distinguish between feeling bad about having something that another person has been denied, but not labeling yourself a bad person. I rationalized that I could get inoculated and then check in on others: help those who were not tech-savvy enough to sign up for their own. While slipping my admission paper into a pocket in my purse—the “ticket” that now seemed a little less gilded—still another reaction emerged. How I wanted the upcoming day to be in the rear view mirror.
The next morning, at the center’s entry checkpoint, however, my ambivalence began to abate: how genial these suburban cops were as they alternated between bending low to field questions from drivers tucked snugly inside their vehicles and guiding heavy traffic. I smiled as I joined a caravan of cars.
Inside, an unexpected hush hung over our heads. Despite the fact that at least a hundred people had filtered into the hall ahead of me, it felt more like we were filing into a church than anything else. Around me stood those I assumed were other baby boomers behind their masks—men and women who, like me, sported crow’s feet, bi-or tri-focal glasses, and loose fitting jeans. It wasn’t as if we all wore the same look; our hair styles, the condition of our bodies and our fashion choices varied. Still, it was easy to imagine that we were old enough as a group to at least remember Herman’s Hermits, even if we hadn’t been fans.
As we waited with patience in long, socially distanced lines, individuals who might have been relatives, or perhaps caregivers, commandeered wheelchairs in which an older generation sat silently, their shoulders stooped. Others, similarly tasked to provide an assist, held the elbows of more mobile seniors, many of whom reminded me of my immigrant Grandma: thick-waisted ladies bundled in tired wool coats and knit hats.
It was while standing there, clutching my verification slip, that I began pondering further the quiet of the room. Perhaps it was simply because having been cowed by COVID, we were wary of engaging with one another. Maybe, too, we were all just feeling weary, even as we felt lucky. We were joined in a singular, sobering mission, after all: to avail ourselves of the chance to avoid the dangers of the Coronavirus. We wanted to dodge any need for a hospital or a ventilator—each of us was hoping to side-step “the worst.”
People began talking among themselves only after we had been ushered, small groups one by one, into a ballroom where stations had been set up by National Guard personnel. There, phrases such as thank you for your service and questions on the order of how do you like the military? buzzed through the room.
How young these millennials appeared, in their army fatigues and sturdy boots! Watching as they navigated through the carefully-spaced aisles, I was struck by their professionalism and efficiency, taking pleasure, too, in how well they had been trained to look their subject straight in the eye. Then, I laughed to myself: surely this was the lame-o kind of detail in which only someone from a different generation would derive pleasure.
A short time later, as an Air Force medic administered the shot, I was suffused with gratitude. Not just with appreciation for the scientists who had worked with such swiftness, or for the vaccines, but for what I hadn’t expected: the opportunity to both witness and experience the goodwill of so many strangers right here in this public arena.
And yet, I felt a twinge of sorrow, too. Scanning the room, I watched these able-bodied, fresh-faced “kids” who’d stood armored and armed in so many cities, so many times, just a few months ago. Deployed to our own communities, those marked by suffering and pain, rioting and rage—how unbelievable that these young men and women had had to endure such disparate experiences, and in such a short period of time. Were they parsing it all in some unusual way, I wondered: these days, defined by order and calm, set against the others, filled with such violent dissent?
We’re on the honor system here, the soldier assigned to our group told us pleasantly, as he guided us into a new room as we finished. Please hang around for a full fifteen minutes to make sure you are OK. There were nods all around, and only when the waiting time had expired did anyone move. I stood then, and suddenly became part of the chorus of After you! No, please, you were here first! as we moved slowly toward the exit. It was as if we’d all experienced the same dopamine rush: a neurobiological phenomenon that occurs when people do a good deed and find it reciprocated. Or maybe we were all just looking to savor the gratitude that we’d shared—and which had hit us so unexpectedly—for just a moment longer?
At home later that day, with my arm still sore, I remained reflective, and sat down at my computer for the first time since getting the green light for the vaccine. I had decided to send a message of thanks to the community leaders responsible for the smooth roll-out at the convention center where I had claimed my Moderna “prize.”
Keep it simple, I told myself, as I typed. But I discovered that a part of me wanted to get expansive—to let those in charge know that side-effects of an emotional sort were possible, too, and were not necessarily unwelcome. As I hit the send button, I wished that anyone receiving the vaccine would experience some version of the complex response that had swept over me. And that the more tender emotions, those that remind us of our mutual humanity, would linger long after the soreness of our muscles disappeared.
