Miracle in Marshall County

I woke up this morning with a sore left shoulder and the shortest haircut of my life.  And that's a beautiful thing.

I got a haircut last March, right as the pandemic was arriving, knowing that it might be a while before I go another one.  Even as things began to open up in the early summer, I was still too nervous to get may haircut.  Then, it became a thing.  I decided - and was very vocal about it - that I wasn't going to cut my hair for one full year or until I got a Covid-19 vaccine.  

Because of my age (54) and the relatively slow rollout of the vaccine, initially I thought it was unlikely I would get a vaccine until mid-summer.  Then, the last couple of weeks, friends of mine starting finding ways to get one.  A nurse brought home two leftover doses after a day of work in Tullahoma giving vaccines.  Supposedly, I could get on "a list" an Vanderbilt if I had been a former patient for any reason.  

A close friend - one who initially thought Covid-19 was a scam and is so conservative it makes his skin itch - got a call from Vanderbilt because he had been treated (for Covid-19!) - and he got a shot.  My law partners were able to get vaccines because one has hypertension (true) and the other is obese, with a body mass index over 30 (possibly true).  When my law partner's wife got a vaccine because she is obese (not true), that was the last straw.  If the plan is to get "shots in arms," I was going to get a shot in my arm. 

I remembered that probably 20 years ago, I was seen at Vanderbilt one spring when my allergies were driving me crazy and I was having difficult taking a deep breath.  I even had a breathing test at Vanderbilt and, in the end, the thought was that I might have exercise induced asthma.  So, with that memory in hand, I logged back on to the State of Tennessee website, completed the detailed health survey, again, and checked the box that said "asthma."  

And, miraculously, when I hit "send," a multitude of vaccine sites opened up for me in counties all over middle Tennessee.  

I set up an appointment for Friday at 3:00 p.m. and didn't tell a soul about it.  Next, I made an appointment to get my hair cut - for the first time in a full year - for 5:00 p.m. on Friday.  I figured that if all went well, I would have just enough time to drive from Lewisburg to Nashville on Friday afternoon.

A word or two about my hair.  Somewhere along the line, in what I laughingly called "a 1-man protest against the pandemic," I decided not to cut my hair for a full year or until I received a vaccine.  It was my way, I guess, of trying to make light of the situation, make others laugh, and to make fun of myself a little bit.  I think my crazy hair, which got really crazy the last six months, did all of those things.  One of our judges even signed a proclamation - backed up by a petition signed by several lawyers - that congratulated me on having the worst hair in the Williamson County Bar.  

Back to Friday.  I left the office about 1:45 p.m. without telling anyone where I was going.  I drove to Lewisburg in Marshall County to the city park where, coincidentally, I had coached J.P.'s Dodgers in the state tournament three summers ago.  I arrived, showed a National Guardswoman the bar code on my confirmation sheet, and she waved me forward.  There was not much of a crowd at all.

I drove forward and pulled under one of two tents, sitting side by side, across from the baseball field where one of the local high schools was having an intrasquad scrimmage.  With a light rain falling from an gray, overcast sky, I unbuttoned my shirt, pulled it down over my left arm, and an extremely nice, professional nurse injected the Pfizer vaccine into my left shoulder.  

Before she gave me the vaccine, I thanked her.  She thanked me for believing in the science.  In Lewisburg, Tennessee.  Then, she said, "you won't feel a thing.  I'm just that good at this."

And she was.  

Just like that, I had received my first round of the Covid-19 vaccination.  I pulled over to some parking spaces to wait the required 15 minutes to make sure I didn't have an adverse reaction to the vaccine. 

And I sat in my truck and cried.  

I cried for all of the people who had died in the past year and for their families.  I cried for people who have died in hospitals surrounded by strangers, with no family in sight.  I cried for the time my boys have lost with their grandparents by not being able to see them.  I cried for the year of their youth my boys lost.  I cried for having not sat in church listening to Father Hammond, at St. Patrick, on Sunday, for a year.  I cried for not having taken my family to a restaurant for a year, or to the beach.  I cried for the sleepovers my boys have missed with friends.  I cried for the children I know, and those I don't, who have been out of school and out of sports for a year.   

I cried in relief.  I want this to be over.  I want to hug the boys that I coach.  I want to see my in-laws and hug them.  I want to shake hands, and not fist bump, with people I meet and with people I know.  I want to hug my friends.  

I got out of my truck, stood in the light rain, and watched a bunch of high school boys playing baseball, the game I love above all others.  Then, I drove to Nashville, to the Moose - a men's "grooming lounge" on Music Row (whatever that means) - and got the shortest haircut of my life.  And if felt so good.

When I walked into the house, J.P. looked at me and yelled in delight, "Whoa!  Look at dad.  Joe, come here!  Quick."  Joe ran downstairs and joined J.P. in praising my haircut.  The boys, of course, had hated my long hair.  I climbed the stair to my office, sat down beside Jude, and surprised her with the whole story.

And, as I sit there Sunday morning, having coffee, I'm grateful that God has kept my family healthy.  I'm grateful that I've gotten the vaccine and I want everyone I know, and everyone I don't know, to get it, too.