I already knew I had the greatest baby ever, but yesterday she really pulled through.
I've been contemplating getting vaccinated for H1N1 flu and finally decided Derek and I probably should since we're in category #2 ( have a child under 6 months) in the most danger should we contract the flu. I'm actually not super worried about the whole swine flu thing, but I get a regular flu shot every year, so why not be vaccinated against this too.
Ah, such a simple decision that led to such turmoil.
The H1N1 vaccine became available in Southern Utah via a drive-thru "shoot out" clinic yesterday. The health department has sponsored these "shoot outs" for the regular flu before and it's pretty slick. You literally wait in your car, drive up to the person who hands you the paper work to sign, pull forward, stick your arm out the window, get the shot and move on. Simple.
The clinic yesterday started at 1 p.m. Being the smart cookie that I am, I assumed there would be a crowd heading for these shots (thanks in part to our ridiculous president declaring this to be a national emergency, and the general hubbub surrounding the topic in the media.) So I left my house in plenty of time to arrive before 1:00, figuring I'd be close to the head of the line.
Not even.
I started to wonder what was in store when it literally took me 20 minutes to turn left onto the road leading to the parking lot where the shots would be administered. Clearly the city officials were not prepared for the crowd either since it wasn't until I'd been in this line of cars for almost 20 minutes that a police officer finally came and started acting as a traffic signal to alleviate the traffic strain.
I proceeded through the intersection and on down the road at a snail's pace, entertaining myself by talking to my brother on the phone. He had good stories to share, so the time went by pleasantly. Then I looked at the clock. It had been about an hour. Lydia was still sleeping in her car seat in the back. Whew. But I knew she'd be due for a feeding soon. Just then, an official looking man in a golf cart came to my window to inform me that the line would be about another hour, and there was a possibility they'd run out of shots before my car.
What?!
With a promise that they'd let me know if I wouldn't get one before too long, I decided to wait and see. The minutes ticked by and Lydia started to stir. I panicked, realizing that although I had carefully brought along a diaper bag, I had failed to grab a bottle for her. I don't blame myself for this. When I left I assumed I'd be home long before her next scheduled feeding. What was I going to do?
Craning my arm back into her car seat while keeping my eyes on the bumper of the car in front of me, I held her binky in place, hoping to satiate the poor girl. It worked for a while and she went in and out of sleep, timidly wimpering occasionally. My mind was racing. What if she started screaming, demanding food? My options were limited. Getting out of the line seemed like a bad idea after I'd already invested so much time. Not feeding my daugher seemed worse. Agh! I needed a plan.
At one point I considered removing her from her car seat and feeding her while we waited in the line of cars, but who am I, Brittney Spears? I was behind the wheel for heaven's sake. Granted we were going about 1 mile an hour with intermittent pauses, but still. My eyes went to the rearview mirror and spotted the car behind me with an older couple inside. Perhaps I could implore the passenger woman to come drive my car while I sat in the back to feed. It was settled. As soon as Lydia starts to scream, I'll do it, I said. I cannot even believe I was serious. A total stranger? Here, drive my car while I breastfeed in front of you? It sounded incredibly odd. But if the situation became desperate, I would.
Time went on... and on... and on. I saw two people leave their cars and go off into some nearby brush to (I can only assume) use the restroom. I hoped it would come to that for me. My gas gauge was getting low. I hadn't eaten or slept much all day. I needed water. Lydia needed a bottle. It was like the perfect storm.
I kept the binky in place, but my arm was going numb.
I passed the time by talking/venting to my mom, my sister, my husband and my brother on the phone and praising Lydia for being such a good girl. Would the line never end? Again and again I considered leaving, but the optimistic notion that surely it would only be a little longer kept haunting me. I continued to idle in the car.
Finally, after about 3 1/2 hours (no joke!) I pulled up to the official parking lot. With desperation in my voice I asked a nearby attendant how much longer it woud be. When he answered "about 30 minutes," tears filled my eyes. You've got to be joking! What is this, communist Russia? Will there be bread at the end of this line as well? The attendant didn't seem to appreciate the Russia reference. "Maybe it'll only be 20 minutes," he offered.
Yes, sir, that's what I need, empty promises.
Just over four hours later I pulled out the lot, a band-aid on my arm. I am now innoculated against the swine flu, and half a day of my life has been lost. My daughter, though, gets the prize. She was an absolute angel. It was more than 5 hours between feedings for her by the time we got home and she never once went into a meltdown.
I wish I could say the same for her mother.
