The Trail of Band-Aids

         As I have reached that certain age, there are many shots my 12-year-old doctor has recommended that I take. Each shot is followed by a band-aid to cover the spot where the inoculation has been administered. Band aids costs about $3 for a box of 30. That’s about 10¢ apiece. Right now, it seems I have used a box of band-aids over the last few months.

         The first shot was the Pfizer covid vaccine, administered at a drive through in my county. Finally, after burning nearly a tank of gas waiting in line, it was my turn. I dutifully had my sleeve rolled up and window rolled down. To my surprise the man who was to administer the shot was a large, burly man. He had hairy knuckles that showed through the rubber gloves. I did not know it was a bone marrow injection — or at least it seemed that way. I got my fist band aid. However, I had to wait in another line for 15 minutes to see if my ears fell off due to side effects of the vaccine.

         The second proud band-aid banner came with the second Pfizer shot. I waited in a large room with other anxious people. I did not know there were that many cell phone rings as I heard in that room. Nevertheless, I received the honored badge after the ordeal.

         The third award of the shiny bandage occurred at the shingles injection. I was warned of the possible side effects of the procedure. All those side effects were hair raising to say the least: “You might have this, or that after this injection.” Seems the only side effect left out was death. I wanted the band-aid so much I consented.

         The fourth level achievement came a few weeks later at the follow-up shingles shot. The prescribed time between was a certain number of days. I count days differently than the druggist counts days. The druggist count won. I showed up one day early according to his count for the second shot. Well, the esteemed band-aid was held before me, dangling in my face. I had to come back. After the one day wait, I walked out of the drug store wearing the armband of honor under my shirt.

         The fifth and last band-aid extravaganza occurred this week. I was minding my own business driving home on Sunday afternoon after church. My wife said, “Let’s go get our flu shots. Pull in here.” Of course, being the very wise husband, I followed the “suggestion.” The line appeared to be about an hour long. You do know of course, there are pages to fill out before any shot is given. They ask information that I have no memory of happening or not happening. I muddled through enough to get into the room to have the shot. By this time (perhaps my behavior showed some wear and tear in waiting) my wife told the pharmacist she would prefer my shot be a 45 caliber or at a minimum a 9 mm. The pharmacist wryly smiled and proceeded with the needle. It felt like a square needle. And to beat it all, he did not count down 1-2-3, he just shoved it in. He awarded me a special band-aid. I was so proud.

         I hope I’m out of collecting band aids for a little while. (It feels like I have a $100 collection instead of a 50¢ one.) That is my hope at least until my pre-pubescent doctor tells me I need more. We live in a great land to be able to have these shots. Yes, I trust the Lord to protect me, and I also take the shots.