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As soon as the FDA ACIP vote to authorize COVID vaccinations for children ages 5-12 began, I was on the phone. “Are you scheduling COVID shots for kids under 12?” I asked every pharmacy I could think of: Walgreens, CVS, local shops. I even called the state health department—twice. When they told me they had no idea when they’d have vaccines available, I shot back, “I read that you have 150,000 doses just sitting there. So what’s the plan?” The representative stumbled over their words. Later, a man I finally reached offered to take my number for a callback.
I even contacted hospitals up to three hours away. My husband came home and told me to take a breath. “We’re not driving three hours tonight, and the FDA director still has to approve the vote,” he said. “You won’t know anything until tomorrow.”
Then, my sister-in-law texted me at 6:30 am from another state. CVS was starting to book online appointments for kids under 12 on Sunday. With insurance cards and coverage numbers in hand, I managed to schedule COVID shots for all my children—one, two, three, in order of age—for Monday. And then I broke down.
It Wasn’t Just About the Vaccinations
Okay, maybe it was partially about getting my kids vaccinated. But it was more than that. My therapist put it this way: sometimes you don’t realize how overwhelming things have been until you see a glimmer of hope. Living in constant survival mode, I hadn’t had the chance to reflect on the chaos I’d navigated. Booking those shots felt like the first step toward achieving true normalcy.
For the first time in a year and a half, I could finally envision a future where my children would be fully vaccinated against COVID-19, significantly reducing their chances of hospitalization, even with the Delta variant. My daily thoughts would no longer be consumed by the question, “How do I keep my kids safe today?”
Until I secured those appointments, I didn’t fully comprehend how stressful everything had become.
In Mama Bear Mode for Over a Year
Since March 6, 2020, every decision I’ve made has revolved around one question: could this put my kids at risk? They had been nearly completely isolated from other children; their former friends’ parents weren’t taking COVID seriously and had invited us to pool parties without masks back in June 2020, making it unsafe to see anyone, even outdoors. I’ve kept my kids out of almost all indoor public spaces, which means I’ve also isolated myself from nearly everyone for more than a year and a half. Getting my kids vaccinated couldn’t come soon enough.
Living in a deeply conservative state where no one wears masks, we’ve avoided going out. We tried visiting the Georgia Aquarium, where strict mask mandates were in place, but I found myself in panic mode among the whale sharks, battling the urge to cry so my kids could enjoy their outing. Thoughts raced through my mind: what if someone in this space has COVID? They’re masked, but they could still get infected. The fear was suffocating.
Every day presented a new battle. If I lost even once, it felt like all my previous efforts were in vain. The burden grew heavier, and finally, when I booked my kids’ COVID shots, I realized I had been living in a state of constant anxiety for a year and a half, with every decision centered around keeping my children safe, and every outing merely a distraction from that fear.
Suppressing Anxiety for Too Long
At the pandemic’s onset, I allowed myself to grieve: I felt sadness over my children missing their friends and anguish over rising death tolls. I wrote about COVID and often fell apart. But something shifted as I slipped into survival mode. I could no longer face it. It felt like around June 2020 when my husband and I were discussing our state’s alarming positivity rates as if they were just numbers. We watched our kids play in the above-ground pool we had purchased early in the pandemic and spoke about death without truly grasping its implications.
After booking my kids’ COVID shots, I recalled those terrifying “what-if” scenarios that had once haunted me: what if my youngest contracted COVID and was intubated alone, unable to see me? What if my husband, who has asthma, became gravely ill and I couldn’t be with him? How could I explain his absence to the kids? If all three of my children fell ill and I had to choose one to stay with, who would I pick?
Once I confirmed the appointments, it felt like I was releasing a year and a half’s worth of pent-up fear. I could finally take a breath and acknowledge just how challenging this journey had been. It was coming to an end, and I could finally let myself feel.
Conclusion
Navigating the pandemic has been a harrowing journey of anxiety and isolation, but scheduling my kids’ vaccinations marked a turning point. It symbolized a path toward reclaiming normalcy after enduring nearly two years of relentless stress and fear.
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