Because of Winn Dixie: The Shingrix Vaccine

The newest shingles vaccine, Shingrix, is 90% effective. That's far superior to its competition, which is only at 50%. It was released last November to a standing ovation and, due to its reputation, has remained in short supply ever since.

So over the last couple of weeks, I've been calling various pharmacies both near me and where I work. Despite the Shingrix website's claims, no one had it.

Then the day before yesterday I called a Winn Dixie in Wesley Chapel and was told that the vaccine would probably arrive the next day. I was excited. I asked if I could come at noon and they cautioned me to call first, in case it was delayed.

I had high hopes.

At noon yesterday I placed the call. Another voice at the pharmacy answered and told me that yes, they had it in. I was ecstatic! Then the woman asked for my name and date of birth. I happily gave them to her and then added "Oh but you won't have me in your system. I haven't used a Winn Dixie pharmacy before."

There was a pause.

"What?" asked the woman sharply. "You haven't... oh, you're not one of our patients?!"

"Well no," I said, "but you're a pharmacy and..." I trailed off.

"Oh well," she said, "We only have one in stock and we prefer to reserve that vaccine for one of our patients that has already had the vaccine." It's a two-part vaccine, you see, which must be administered 2-6 months apart.

"Aren't both vaccines the same?" I asked. She admitted they were. "Well then," I said, "Can't I get it if I come today?"

"Well we can't turn you AWAY," the woman said grudgingly. "But I've called other customers who had their first shot and now need THIS one."

"Well yes," I said mildly, "but I need it also. If I came over now could you give it to me?"

"Well I can't stop you," she said somewhat ungraciously.

So I went. I flew over there, and raced through the doors, watching other customers coming and going and hoping that no one else had beat me to that precious vaccine.

I stood in line at the pharmacy, almost dancing in anticipation. I finally got to the window. "I'm the one that just called," I said. "For the Shingrix vaccine?"

The svelte Scandinavian blond, an older woman with an improbable name tag of Margaret (I would have expected Heidi or Elle) informed me in clipped, accented tones that the vaccine was still available. And then she tried again to discourage me from getting it. I was The Interloper descending into her well-ordered kingdom and justice was in peril. I realized she was the same woman I'd just spoken with on the phone.

"You must understand," she said. "I really prefer to reserve this vaccine for our current customers. We are always running out of it, so I often am calling the pharmacies that don't use it as much. It's hard to get it."

She looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to fall on my sword and say "Oh, well if it's for the good of total strangers, by all means let me come down with shingles!"  But I merely smiled and passed her my drivers license and insurance card.

"Well, sometimes insurance doesn't cover it," Margaret said, with the weak hope of a woman near defeat. I smiled at her again and said nothing. I was attempting to be nice. It's scary to think that someone might mess with your vaccine in revenge, or give you a brutal experience with the sharp end of a needle. Margaret's name tag also said she was a pharmacy manager, whatever that meant. I knew it might mean she was also the person that did the jabbing.

She sniffed and walked away to run my information. After a time, she came back and reluctantly admitted my vaccine was covered under insurance. Honestly, I would have been willing to pay full price if I had to, and it wasn't cheap. With my a rather faulty immune system, and being the sole earner in a household of one, I couldn't afford to be out with a case of shingles.

Margaret had me fill out the paperwork and, after a wait, came out to administer the vaccine herself (I had been right). I smiled placatingly at her again and thanked her for her largesse. She was Lady Bountiful: Giver of the Shingrix Vaccine, and she was happy to let me know it.

Margaret once again went into the long tiresome explanation about how the vaccine really should have been reserved for someone else. I think up until that moment she still had the high hopes that I'd back out. But I didn't. I just smiled and thanked her for making me the exception.

And so, resignedly, she prepared to administer the vaccine. My blouse was long sleeved and the sleeves were very tight at the wrist, so I said I could always take it off, since I had an undershirt on. But because it was so loose around the neck, it was easy to pull down one shoulder, and that's what I did. As she prepped my shoulder with an alcohol wipe, she told me sharply to let go of the fabric. "I can do that," she snapped at me.

"Oh, OK," I said humbly, somewhat alarmed now that the needle was in close proximity and reminded that I was at her mercy. Then she put on a band-aid only partially and said, somewhat snottily, "There. It's done." I looked at her with a raised eyebrow and looked at the site where half the band-aid lay, with the other half still covered. I guess she would place the band-aid first, give the injection, and then pull the tab off the other portion of the band-aid to finish the assault. "Oh just kidding," she said, not smiling. "I bet I fooled YOU!"

"Heh heh," I agreed.

Finally the deed was done and I left in quiet triumph. I had vanquished Margaret and I had got the vaccine.