Memorial day

A year ago, Rebecca and I had just returned from Florida, and before you could say “corned beef and cabbage,” the state of Michigan was in lockdown a week after St. Patrick’s Day.

Sadly, today marks one year since the first COVID-19 case in Michigan: March 10, 2020.

In a year, there have been 652,589 cases in our state. We’ve lost 16,589 Michiganders to the novel coronavirus that causes COVID-19.

We personally know of several lives lost, but the one that touched ours closest was our friend, William Brinson, who died April 10, 2020. He was 67, a southern gentleman who worked more than 45 years at General Motors. Dinah, his wife and our friend, still struggles with lasting effects of having fought the virus herself.

With 527,950 total deaths in the U.S., there’s no question that this virus has changed every aspect of our lives. We’ll never be the same.

To remember and honor those we’ve lost, all U.S. and Michigan flags within the State Capitol were lowered to half-staff today. In addition, residents were asked to turn on their outside or porch lights from 8-9 p.m.

Our porch lights are on, as a figurative and literal way to remind us that even in the darkest times, we are in it together. And somehow, some way, we will get through this pandemic.

Whatever you may think of Michigan’s governor – or your own, for that matter – I’d like to think the difficult decisions ours and other local and national leaders made were guided by facts, science and data. Their ultimate goal? To save lives, and protect public health and safety.

Fast-forward to today. With three available COVID-19 vaccines available, more than two-thirds of Americans age 75 and older have received at least one dose, according to Centers for Disease Control and Prevention data.

As of Monday, any Michigan residents age 50 and up with pre-existing medical conditions or disabilities were eligible to receive the COVID-19 vaccine. Caregiver family members and guardians who care for children with special health care needs also became eligible. On March 22, all those 50 and over will become eligible.

This week, I had my first dose of the Pfizer vaccine at a Detroit-area Meijer store. I registered through their website awhile back and received a text last week as we were packing up the car to come home.

(Unrelated aside: How is it possible to have just as much, if not more, stuff in the car on your return trip as you did on your way down? Don’t answer that.)

Meijer is a grocery chain with stores in Michigan, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Kentucky and Wisconsin. They offered free COVID-19 vaccinations at select locations, and at one point, they were giving up to 1,200 shots per day at some stores. The first week in February, Meijer injected 25,000 doses into the arms of Michiganders.

Honestly, the thought of getting vaccinated made me a little nervous, considering I hadn’t even gotten a flu shot until two years ago after my mitral valve heart surgery. I wasn’t an anti-vaxxer, just fearful of side effects after a bad experience in the mid-1990s with my first-ever flu shot.

Silly, I know. But I couldn’t get that out of my head.

In a global pandemic, though, there was no question I would get vaccinated, especially since I’d survived two open-heart surgeries in 20 years. Plus, Rebecca made me. Partner trumps irrational fear.

Anyway, there I was Tuesday afternoon in the shoe department of the Rochester Hills Meijer standing at the end of a line that snaked around the Skechers display into women’s active wear. I had a 2:05 appointment.

The line moved quickly, each person making sure to stand 6-feet apart on a newly duct-taped, socially distanced spot.

Everyone seemed to be in good spirits. I smiled through my mask at the middle-aged guy in front of me who sported a Levi jacket with “Protect our troops” embroidered on the back. His kind blue eyes smiled back.

By 2:20 p.m., I was seated in chair #8 with Chris, a Meijer pharmacist among many, who explained that she and all of them had been trained in giving the vaccinations. “Left arm OK?” she asked. I nodded.

By 2:25 p.m., I sat with about a dozen others in a makeshift waiting area dotted with red plastic chairs sanitized by a nice lady with blue latex gloves the moment someone left. Protocol was to sit for 15 minutes to make sure you didn’t have a bad reaction to the vaccine.

I jumped when my phone’s timer went off and felt a sense of relief that I was now somewhat protected from this damn virus.

I’ll be back in exactly three weeks – same time, same place, same line – for my second dose.

Tonight, though, we’ll remember those we lost, how lucky we are and leave the porch lights on.