Disclaimer: This pond scene is not a close approximation of today’s flu shot clinic.

In our fancy patient online portal, I clicked through the decision tree to book me a flu shot appointment. Sure, the local pharmacy offers them, but if I schedule through the portal then the shot can go in my permanent record, and my providers will see and won’t fret about me this flu season. Trick is, the portal lists all the local clinics in our agency except the real convenient one across the street from work. There was no evident way of adding that clinic to my list of provider sites. So, after typing a tech support question (how do I add this member of your franchise to the viewing page?) the team sent me a nice lengthy explanation sounding like a prepared chat reply, about how to open the portal and click through the decision tree to book me a flu shot.

Sigh. So at 3:10 pm I got out of my chair and walked across the street to the clinic registration desk and got in line. During the little wait, 15 minutes or so, all of us in the building could hear ear-wincing roars of distress from some small child in a back room. All we could do, clinic staff and patients, was abide there going about our business while the little gipper just roared to the ceiling. My heart went out to this poor baby being subjected to some scary procedure back there.

Then it was my turn at the Registration desk. We had to raise our voices to be heard above the screaming, but it was still a pleasant exchange. “Hello!! Say, here’s my ID and insurance. I’d like a flu shot. I’m a patient in the system, but can’t figure out how to add this clinic to the list in my portal.” The friendly staff member said “Well, then howbout you just step through that door and ask the nurse? Maybe she’ll take a walk-in.” Really? Wow! Sometimes there is no substitute for levitating out of your chair, logging out, and walking across the street to ask questions and find out stuff on your own.

So ok, at 3:25 I peeked around the corner. There were two nurses in a little office with, sure enough, a kind of popup flu season vaccine site. But the 3:15 slot had already been reserved for the howling baby, who was flatly refusing his flu shot. It was surprising to see that he wasn’t a baby at all. He was a strapping kid of five or so, sitting back on a chair and kicking his Dad’s stomach with both legs while demanding that Dad take him home without a shot. “Would you rather sit in Daddy’s lap for this? I’ll hold you,” said his father. But, no dice. Well, no one could restrain this unhappy patient from fighting. His anxious father tried to soothe, comfort, and apologize to his frantic son as the minutes ticked by. Finally Dad peeled his son out of the chair and hauled him out to the hallway for a gentle cuddle.

Now. This was not the common everyday occurrence of, say, a child with autism at the grocery store who is understandably overwhelmed by the fluorescent lighting, the random announcements and chimes shooting out of the overhead sound system, people with carts trying to navigate around crowded aisles. When one of these little fellas has an implosive incoherent meltdown, that’s different. My standard response is to catch the parent’s eye, and say “I wish I had a cool person to shop with!” Sometimes that’s enough to improve things. There is also the ploy of crouching on the floor at a safe distance and talking out loud about these fascinating barcode stripes on the shelf. What can they all mean? It must be a special language! Those stripes there mean tomatoes at 99 cents a can. How much is that an ounce? Is it cheaper than the tomato cans over here?

But that’s a child who is neurologically drowning and screaming for help. That seems different from a child issuing commands that he doesn’t want to get wet, and therefore everybody must get out of the pool (all while aiming full frontal blows at his parent).

The two nurses glanced over at me. It dawned on the three of us that maybe that 3:15 slot wasn’t going to be a wash after all. They opened the portal to my patient record immunization screen, and asked me a few questions about allergies and such. “Just so you know,” I told them softly, “When I get flu shots, I sound just like him.” One nurse gave me a long patient look. “You go for it,” she invited me, entering my data. “Ma’am, you’re going to heaven,” I predicted. “Don’t know about that,” she reasoned, preparing the hypodermic.

I unfastened a couple of buttons, pulled my shirt off the shoulder, stepped out into the hall and spoke to the kiddo. “HEY, look at this: I’m getting a flu shot. Come watch me! This is gonna be AWESOME!” Dad looked hopeful. “Would you like to go watch the flu shot and see what it’s like?” At this the boy just roared even more. “Oh… you’re afraid to watch,” the Dad said, giving him a sympathetic squeeze.

I went back in and sat down. “I’m being pretty good, you know. There better be a lollipop in store for me.” The nurse gave me my shot and applied a band-aid. “Well, you can help yourself to this bowl of stickers. I think you should take two.”

I took a colorful sticker at random, thanked them, went back to the hall, and announced to no one “THAT ONLY TOOK A SECOND. IT DIDN’T HURT AT ALL. AND, I GOT A FREE STICKER.” The boy paid no mind to me. The clinic closed at 4:00, so it’s not certain that he ever got his shot. But his mom gave me a grateful look: “You are very brave.” I buttoned my shirt, gave her a smile, and said “Well, I’m 67. That’s almost grown up.” Back at the office across the street I logged right back in, looked up the nurse in our hospital system directory, and sent her an email hailing her with praise and appreciation. We’re not allowed to mention religion in our email communications, though it is still evident that she’s going to heaven.

At home, one of my favorite smokers was out on the bench, enjoying the evening. I told him about the clinic. “It seems to me,” I said, “that by shielding and lulling that child for 5, 10, 15, 20 minutes and more, it was only prolonging his ordeal and holding him in his place of panic. When I offered to let him watch, I wanted to portion the task into manageable pieces and include him in cheerful community support. Maybe the parents could have asked for a saline injection for themselves too, to model the experience. Make it all a victorious rite of passage, complete with stickers. One time when I was little, Mom brought me to the doctor for a shot, and I locked myself in the doctor’s office bathroom. Mom told me in a very quiet Company Voice to open that door this second and get out here and SIT. Then she gave me That Look. From a Mom, The Look was worse than any shot. We were taught to respect doctors and do what we’re told. What about your childhood?” No need to ask. I knew perfectly well what he’d say next. “Would your mother put up with fuss?”

“Would mine?” He sat back with a delighted laugh. “A Mexican mom? Whoooa.”

The sticker in day-glo colors spells the word EXTROVERT. That gives me an image to live up to.

The band-aid is extra bright and very sparkly.