COVID SUNDAY: VACCINE DATE AT OREGON CONVENTION CENTER

Covid Sunday started at 2:45.

That was the appointment time for a covid vaccine.

Not my appointment though, I was just the driver.

The driver plans one thing for Covid Sunday: Don’t be late.

That was my plan after talking to a lady who had been late and lost her appointment time.

The plan was be on time, with a secondary plan of “What if they’ve got an extra shot laying around?”

The secondary plan ended right away.

We left the house at two o’clock, hit all the lights though town, and cruised the light traffic on I-5 North.

After the Marquam Bridge I took the Weidler exit for the Moda Center, but drove straight up to MLK Blvd for a right turn toward the Convention Center.

My passenger had the route hard wired after years of attending the Veg Fest. I liked the symmetry of taking a healthcare person for a covid vaccine where they’d spent time at a health related event.

Past several blocks of the long building, I took the first right headed west, then another right to the underground parking. All of the gates were up; no charge, no ticket, no validation.

We invoked the Parking Goddess, found a spot, and followed signs to where the vaccines were happening.

Uniformed parking staff waved their light sabers to direct those who couldn’t read.

So far so good. I didn’t get lost, didn’t have to pay for parking, didn’t orbit the parking structure, and had multiple pointers giving directions. It was starting to feel like Covid Sunday would work out as planned.

Except the part of getting the odd vaccine just for showing up.

Appointment Validation

The organizing factors kicked in right away. Everyone needed their appointment validation, like an email on a smart phone.

We came out of the garage to a rumba line of people standing on socially distanced stickers. An official looking man passed by the line.

“I’m here with an appointment person. What are the chances of a spare vaccine?”

“That’s not how we roll here,” was the response.

Strike One on Covid Sunday.

The line moved at a slow walk toward the first check in lady looking at appointment records and directing people to another line if they had one, but didn’t bring it.

I didn’t bring one because I didn’t have one.

Strike Two.

We slow walked to a set of tables handing out vaccine information and a shot card to fill in, along with sharp little golf pencils. With all the boxes checked we rode an escalator to the next floor, dropping the pencil in a bucket at the bottom.

This is when it started looking like the check-in at the airport. People stood on the designated spots, winding around the path marked by crowd control posts and flat belts.

The path led to a doorway for an interior space, but still not the injection room. Another long and winding pathway inside led to a bank of check-in tables with computers and staff in front of a temporary wall. Our guy was an Army Pfc.

The check in process eliminated most of the guess work, the anxiety, and doubt. Reduced to the essentials, it was show up on time, be a patient slow walker, and follow directions.

At this part of check-in, the Pfc asked about allergies. My rider said she was allergic to cats and horses. Cats? Horses?

It was enough to pull a consult with a roving guy who turned out to be a doctor with lots to say. He even commented on my hat.

“Do you have Duke phobia?” he asked.

“No, Duke is fine. Why do you ask?”

“The D on your hat.”

“That’s a D for the Dallas Cowboys.”

“Pittsburgh is my team.”

“Staubach.”

“Bradshaw.”

We Moved Along On Covid Sunday

Around the temporary wall the vaccine gallery was set up with the crowd control barrier walkway that led to forty four stations. Two people shared a long table, with two tables end to end, across the entire room.

After each injector finished and cleaned up, they raised a numbered card.

“Number 31 is ready for you,” the gatekeeper said.

#31 was an Air Force sergeant who lived in Newburg. He’d done over five hundred vaccinations. With a little chit-chat he did the deed without pause.

“All done.”

“I didn’t feel a thing.”

Because of the horse and cat allergy alert, we were directed to a waiting room with socially distanced chairs for fifteen minutes. Even with that, we headed out, found the car, and got on the road back home.

Added up, the entire ordeal lasted about two hours from door out to door in. No hiccups, bumps in the road, or conflict.

If you’re married, and waiting on a vaccine while your partners gets theirs, Covid Sunday counts as “Date Time.”

Answer any dispute on what is and what isn’t Date Time with, “If this saves your life, it’s the best date ever, but go on.”

I’ll be one of the last to get the shot, but this dry run set the tone.

A big thanks to Joan H, who helped set things up early.

Click this link to covidvaccine.oregon.gov, and scroll down to “Let’s Get Started” to make an appointment.