Fireworks rang out. Ticker tape fell from the ceiling. A line of dancing penguins waltzed across the room waving flags that read, “You did it!” and “Congratulations!” U2 burst from a closet singing their great rock anthem, “It’s a Beautiful Day.”
Oh, yes. Yes, it truly was.
We had just scored family members COVID-19 vaccines. The most exclusive ball of the season. The rock star event of the year. The Holy Grail of health.
“Wow!” my wife said. “It’s like a ‘We won the lottery’ rush!”
Well, maybe not quite that. Someone in Michigan just took home a billion dollars in Lotto. He or she can afford to get the vaccine while riding in a gold-plated rocket.
But, still pretty darn exciting. Our own lottery win.
Maybe you know what I’m talking about. The feeling? Along with frontline workers, anyone 65 and older is eligible for the COVID-19 vaccine. But just satisfying the age requirement is the easy part. Getting the actual shot is where the trick comes in. Here in Florida, it means trying early in the morning to snag one of the availabilities in our county’s online reservation system. Frantically searching out days or times for available “shot slots” in the hope that you will be one of the lucky souls to come away with an appointment.
For my mother, it hadn’t started out so well. She had failed a couple of times and called panicked one morning to ask why she had an error code on her screen.
“Does that mean I did something wrong and am no longer eligible for a shot?” she asked.
“No! Just hit the ‘Refresh’ button!!!” I yelled into the phone as if the fate of humanity rested on this one action. As if it would halt a thermonuclear meltdown in a power plant with the click of the mouse.
She replied, as if I was a complete idiot: “Brian! There’s no ‘Refresh’ button on the keyboard.”
“I know!” I snapped before it occurred to me I had no Earthly idea how to explain where it was: “It’s … um … up there by the … oh Hell. JUST CLICK EVERYTHING!”
She missed out.
So, my brother and I started getting into the great COVID lottery scrum to see if we could do any better. At first, we couldn’t.
I thought I had success my first try on the county’s system. A button popped up asking if I wanted to make a reservation, and with the graze of a strutting peacock, I clicked on it. How easy was that? Nailed it on the first go around. I’m like a COVID Superman!
Wheels started turning on the screen, and I got an encouraging message: “Hold on one second while we retrieve your ticket,” it said, or something to that effect. And then, “if it’s still available.”
Um, like, of course it’s still available, silly vaccine system. Why else would you be going to retrieve my …
Sorry. Your vaccine appointment is no longer available.
WAIT … WHAT?!? But you just said …
Fail.
My brother tried and came up short another time for a reason he claims was caused by upper atmospheric disturbances.
When we finally heard that Publix was opening their vaccine reservation system online for another round, we rallied. We re-grouped. We hatched a plan, and traded intel and advice from others who had successfully scored concert tickets … er … vaccines. We had lists of all the store locations in the county, and then ranked which would be our backups.
The morning of, the two of us, along with my mother, got up early, fired up our computers, pulled out our phones and prepared to blitzkrieg the system from multiple devices while employing a litany of patented strategies. (Mine involved a fancy wrist-click with the mouse.)
And when the minute came – with adrenaline and anxiousness and determination coursing through our veins – we clicked on with thousands of other people across the state. And just like that …
We sat there.
I expected it to be like a raging video game. Clicking through pages and hammering “Sign up” buttons as quickly as I could like I was piloting a space ship through hostile alien worlds. Not patiently starting at a screen as it automatically refreshed every minute.
“Uh, aren’t we supposed to be doing something dramatic or ingenious?” I texted my brother.
“Nope,” he replied. “Pretty much just sit there and drink some coffee. If you’re lucky, the system lets you in.”
That’s it?!? I put on extra deodorant and a track suit for this!?!
We sat at our screens waiting as minutes ticked by, and then a half hour. Suddenly – BOOM! Cue the fireworks! – he was in. “I got one!” he texted me. (I think it was the exact same moment my mother called to ask if she should hit “Refresh.”)
Victory! Thank you Publix!
A few minutes later, my computer got through and I hustled my wife to enter her mother’s info. We had another one.
Both women were amazed. Neither had gotten through that morning.
“How did you all do that?” my mother asked. “I’m not even sure my computer is still logged on!”
Some technical prowess, maybe. Luck mostly. I don’t know.
But even in our excitement – knowing two people won’t have to worry as much anymore – it dawned on me that thousands of others across the state were “going home” empty-handed that morning. For some, it was just the timing that caused them to miss out. For others, maybe it was computer speed or bad Internet connections or not being able to navigate as quickly through the forms to get an appointment before they filled up. That filled me with sadness.
And maybe that’s the lesson – the challenge for us: That we ALL need to pitch in and do what we can to help people out more. To reach out to family and friends, neighbors and parishioners, complete strangers even. Anyone who might need help. Because there are an awful lot of people trying to figure out the online reservation systems, and all of them could who use a line of penguins dancing to “It’s a Beautiful Day.”