I always knew I’d get the COVID vaccine. There was no question about it, I had no hesitations—and I’m someone who used to kick and scream whenever I had to get injections, even as an adult.

I bawled in the emergency room when I found out I was being admitted for dengue because I knew it meant getting an IV. I was almost 30 years old then and I didn’t care that people were watching me throw a toddler-level tantrum. That’s how much I hated needles.

But there would be no tears for me this time. If a couple of shots were all that was standing between me and protection from this awful virus, hell, go ahead, prick me like a voodoo doll.

Doctors have compared the vaccine to a seatbelt, a fire hose, a shield—so why wouldn’t I want it? No amount of antivaxxer propaganda would convince me otherwise.

For me, it wasn’t a matter of if, just when. When the rollout started, I knew I was in for a wait because, of course, front-liners, senior citizens and those with comorbidities should get priority. I was in no rush. I was more concerned about my mom and my grandparents getting vaccinated.

When my mom expressed concern about which COVID vaccine she’d end up getting, I echoed what would become our mantra for the next weeks: “The best vaccine is the first one that’s available.”

I was so proud to see her so intent on getting vaccinated. She got a quick booking with the Quezon City local government using the eZConsult portal in April. On the day she got her first dose of Sinovac, I was so happy for her that I made her favorite pineapple upside-down cake to celebrate. When she got home, she kept talking about how nice everyone was at the inoculation site.

Vaccine help desk

She helped my grandparents through the same booking process and they all managed to get their vaccines, no problem. My grandpa was just delayed a little because he had high blood pressure on the day of his first dose. Over the next couple of weeks, it was like my mother was running her own COVID vaccine help desk. She kept talking to friends on the phone, telling them they had nothing to fear, and helping them figure out how to book as well.

(But that was in April. Earlier this week, the Quezon City local government terminated its contract with Zuellig Pharma, the company behind eZConsult, because the site kept crashing and couldn’t handle the volume of people trying to book their vaccine appointments.)

Because they were already done, my mom and my grandma kept worrying about when my brother and I would get our vaccines.

But I wasn’t stressing out about it. I knew I’d get it, somewhere, somehow. I had signed up for the office order of Moderna shots, and my uncle had also ordered Novavax for me and my brother. I’d go for whichever came first. Repeat mantra: The best vaccine is the first one available.

My brother didn’t need to worry either. He had already been scheduled to leave for the United States to start another cruise ship contract (yes, cruises are reopening again) and his company already said he’d be vaccinated when he boards the ship in Florida. (And that’s exactly what happened—he got his single dose of Johnson & Johnson the day he arrived. He’s done.)

As for me, I knew it was possible I’d be waiting until the third or fourth quarter of the year for my doses, and that was OK.

Appointment

But last week, when I went down to get a drink of water, I overheard my mom on the phone.

“Yung anak ko na lang yung wala,” she was saying.

Just minutes later, she called to say that I had a vaccine appointment for the next day. What? How?

Apparently, someone from our barangay office called to check if all the seniors in the house had been vaccinated. That was the conversation I overheard.

I need to stress that we don’t know anyone in our barangay office—they were actually calling one house after another to check on people’s vaccination status. When my mother told Nancy—a stranger to us before that phone call—that I had yet to get the vaccine, Nancy told her they had slots for the next day and that I could go.

When I asked my mom what vaccine I’d be getting, she repeated our mantra. “Akala ko ba, the best vaccine is the first one available?”

Touché.

Then I remembered how Pasig City Mayor Vico Sotto talked about people getting their shots on their butts because their arms were covered in tattoos. I have tattoos on my arms. Did that mean I had to get injected in the butt? God, I hope not.

Hope

It was only then that I realized how excited I had been to get vaccinated. I prepared for my appointment as if I was preparing for a first date—actually, no, more than that. I gave myself a mani-pedi, I actually brushed my hair, I wore pants for the first time since March 2020, and I put a ton of glitter on my face. A ton.

“Why is your face sparkling?” my mother asked as I left the house.

“I’m celebrating,” I said. I felt like celebrating because, somehow, getting my first dose felt like seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. It was only on that day that I finally allowed myself to hope that maybe the end of this horrific thing we’ve all been going through was actually in sight. For the first time since the lockdown started, I had a buoyant heart.

I wasn’t the only one who was excited. My mom was so happy and my grandma made me a cheese sandwich to eat on the way to my vaccination.

Armed with the form from the barangay, and wearing my face mask and face shield, I arrived at Trinity University of Asia on E. Rodriguez. The queue outside reminded me of lines at the Department of Foreign Affairs. But inside, the atmosphere was different.

There was a lightness in the air, that sense of hope multiplied. There was a strange sense of community, even though I was among strangers. We’ve all been in this together and with us getting this layer of protection from the vaccine, we’d all be getting out of it together.

Everyone was so nice at the inoculation site—the Quezon City local government people handing out the health declaration screening forms, the people shepherding us and telling us what the next step was, the people joking around while waiting for their turn, the front-liner who did my health screening, and Carol, the cheerful woman who administered my first dose of Pfizer.

Over a thousand people

I asked her if it was tiring to give people injections all day.

“Masakit na nga yung balakang ko, eh,” she said. But she was smiling and she added that their goal was to vaccinate over a thousand people that day.

After my vaccine, another smiling woman handed me a bottle of water and a cheese cupcake.

“Merienda,” she said.

Before I left, there were reminders: Rest; bathing is OK; eat whatever you want; drink paracetamol if you get a headache or fever; and no lifting weights for three days.

Of course, the no lifting weights part flew out the window when I got home and my dog ran out the door and started gallivanting around the townhouse compound. I had to chase him and carry all 30 squirming pounds of him back into the house.

I spent the rest of the day working, feeling no side effects. The next day, I had some body pain, the kind you feel after a really intense workout. I didn’t mind because I knew it meant the vaccine was starting to do its job.

When I posted about getting my first shot online, friends reacted with hearts, clapping hands, and my new favorite pun, “Good jab!”

I can’t wait to get my second dose.