The way some people view my hesitance about the COVID vaccines: I am an anti-American anti-vaxxer.
The way I view it: I am a discerning consumer, especially when it comes to what I put in my body.
The way some people view my waiting for the one-shot Johnson and Johnson: I should take the first vaccination that becomes available.
The way I view it: It makes perfect sense to hold out for one set of side effects, instead of two.
I have chronic lymphocytic leukemia, CLL, also known as cancer of the immune system.
Things don’t affect me the way they do other people.
Yet even if I was in perfect health, I believe my questions and concerns shouldn’t brand me as irresponsible, but in fact the opposite.
As it is, I’ve had leukemia for 12 years.
During these 12 years, my health has guided my every move, from the food I eat and the company I keep, to the way I approach religion and work. If it’s remotely stressful, if there’s even a chance something or somebody might not be good for me, out it goes. This applies to medication, too. Not only have I refused the hardline drugs with the deadly side effects the oncologists only halfheartedly offer, but during the past dozen years, I’ve hardly taken so much as a Tylenol. Even the most benign medication can adversely affect my blood.
So far, I’ve managed to hold the disease at bay. Still, the future is not assured, and sometimes the lack of clear choices terrifies me. This year, in particular, I engaged in virtual talk therapy twice a week, trying to ease the constant fear that I would get COVID on top of leukemia with no guaranteed way out.
I knew like everybody else going into this year that a vaccine was on the way.
But this information was not a source of relief for me personally like its was for my friends and family.
Instead, it was a source of anxiety.
I knew the vaccination to be a public-health issue, that I “should” get the shot for the good of the whole. But what if the good of the whole was in conflict with the good of the one?
I also knew I would get pushback from the people who care about me, who would forget that until and unless you have cancer, you can’t know what you yourself will do, only what you think you will do, and you will unwittingly put that on the beloved one.
This is not to say I ignored the concerns of my family, including those of my youngest child, who had a pithy response to my “We just don’t know about the long-term side effects of the vaccinations.”
“Yeah, but, Mom,” 23-year-old Benjie said, not missing a beat, “we do know about one very serious side effect of COVID.”
I heard the voices of my children. I also read journal articles and talked with my very smart science journalist friend, who has spent the last year writing about COVID and who is pro-vaccine.
“This is a scientific triumph,” she said. “We are so lucky to have safe and effective vaccines so fast.”
I spoke at length, too, with my oncologist, who was straight-up with me.
“It’s true. We don’t know if the vaccine will work on people like you.”
But.
“The risk of the disease is greater than the risk of the vaccination,” she said.
Even with the blood clots that some people have experienced after the vaccination, I asked.
“Even with the blood clot issue. These cases are rare.”
And/but.
“I will also understand if you decide not to get the vaccine.”
In the end it was up to me. God help me, it was up to me.
In the end, on a perfect afternoon earlier this month, I walked into a church in a conservative Ohio county with two of my children and one of their significant others, where we were able to get four appointments back-to-back. The locals, many of them refusing the vaccination for their own set of reasons, had left wide-open slots for residents from other counties to fill.
One-by-one, the four of us signed papers and a vaccination card. We took seats on metal folding chairs in the parish hall. And we looked away while a nurse poked a needle into our arms.
I guess I knew all along this was going to be the end result.
I knew all along I might rather take my chances with this than with that.
I just had to get here my own way.
Which is always the best way.
In the end, I was able to say of my own accord:
“Here’s my arm.
Thanks for letting me decide which one.”
