The San Diego Kaiser COVID-19 Chronicles: Robots, Earthlings and Angels

By Colleen O’Connor

What keeps America together?  See for yourself.

“Look at the people that are on the ground. That’s who represents America,” says Admiral William McRaven; the man who oversaw the Bin Laden raid.

Look at the great story of the Oregon health workers who got stuck in a snowstorm on their way back from a COVID-19 vaccination event and went car to car injecting stranded drivers before several of the doses expired.

That “impromptu vaccine clinic” is a prime example of who represents America.  Those are the angels among us.  As I discovered myself.

Starting from the beginning.

8 a.m., the phone rings.  No identifying name, but a “Spam Alert” scroll.  I hang up.  The call repeats two more times.

I try voicemail and get this message.  “You are eligible for a COVID-19 vaccine.  Call this number.”

Quite happy about the possibility of getting the exceedingly rare dose, I call the number and reach a robot.  Press “1” for English and a long message about COVID-19 compliance.

Then, “If you wish to speak to a service representative, press “1” for diabetes, “2” for depression and “3” for some other malady. Having none of these conditions, I assumed I misdialed and dial three more times.  Same robot recording.

So, anxious now to get the vanishing vaccine, I finally press “1” for diabetes.  Voila, I get a human voice.  An earthling answers and I explain my dilemma.

She asks, “Are you available for an appointment today?”  “YES,” I enthusiastically reply and sign up for the first opening: 1:10 that afternoon.  “Check-in 10minutes early. Wear a mask.  Park in the garage.  Go straight to lobby.”

I kindly suggested that they might try adding “#4 COVID-19 Vaccine” to the robot message.  A giggle responds, “We can’t.  We were just commandeered for this task this morning.”

“Thank you for being at work.   I will be there.”

Not much time. I rush to my car. Only to discover no keys.  No spare keys, either. An hour later, I speed away.

The GPS robot directs and signs off, “The address in on your right. You have arrived at your destination.”

20 minutes late for the appointment, I literally run from the parking garage, to the lobby, am directed to a tent, handed a clipboard, fill out forms, temperature okayed, sign waiver and then directed indoors.  Super-efficient.

Inside, a long corridor (with a long table staffed with about 6 or 7 women), one of whom signals me forward with a small, pom-pom.  I apologize and explain the key episode.  Genially, she begins with questions, inputs all quickly to the computer.  All the while smiling – and others admitting they often do the same.

Gathering my own intelligence (as my father always coached) I asked how many vaccines have the administered already.  Over 500 thus far. Impressive.

Instructions: “Go down that corridor, turn right and wait for the escort.”

Another long passageway, a group of about 6-8 patients dutifully wait. All rather frail.  All led, patiently, by a young man who said “follow me.”  First, a long hallway, then turn down another, past the coffee shop, then to an elevator, then another jaunt.

One older woman was making a superhuman effort to keep up and go the distance on her walker and reluctant feet.  Another man on crutches struggled to keep pace, but never complained.

Another pom-pom staffer signals us to a vaccine station with nurse and attendant.  Remarkably swift.  The nurse was brilliant; couldn’t feel anything.

Then directed to yet another long hallway, with many dozens of chairs (all six feet apart), to wait the fifteen minutes to rule out bad reactions.  “Take a seat. Check your watch or Smart phone.  After 15 minutes you can leave.  Just wait for the escort at the door.”

I take the closest seat. No clocks on the wall, and in keeping with my day, I forgot my phone in the car.

A bit later, the elderly women with the walker turns the corner.  Clearly struggling with breath and struggling to stand, I bounce up; gave her my seat and saw such a tearful look of appreciation as she whispers thank you, that I feel beyond humbled.

At my new perch, an older man, diligently reading the CDC information papers we have been given, asks a passing nurse questions. As he is slightly deaf, I can hear the Q&A clearly.

Q&A: “What do I do with this after I leave?”

“If you experience any symptoms, just scan the barcode for answers.”

“I don’t have a smart phone.”

“Well, then.  Just google it.”

“I don’t have a computer. And why does the CDC need me to call then?“

“They will call  you every day for about 2 weeks and ask about your symptoms.  It is data collection.” The nurse is gentle, clear and had the patience of a saint.

Seated across the way, a very frail woman, rummages through her small bag and begins in a voice as tiny as she is:

“How do I find my doctor to call?”

“You should have the number on your Kaiser card.”

She rifles through her tiny purse, finds the card and asks “Where?”

“There it is,” answers the nurse, “right here on the back.”

“But that is not my doctor,” at which the nurse solves and salves. The patience and kindness and softness of each encounter I witnessed defies description.

I leave my seat, walk down the hallway to wait for the escort to let me leave.

Sitting across from me is a couple, most likely in their 90s or above.  She remarks how happy she is to have received the vaccine so fast.  It has “morphed,” you now.  “We have to beat it.”

Back to the parking garage, I can’t find my car.  Wandering the aisles berating myself, but marveling at the robots for getting me there, the earthlings for their fortitude and for this story, and the Kaiser frontline angels for such kindness.

What a remarkable group of professionals.

Me, hapless, hopeless, and now genuinely humbled.