Flu Missed

The annual flu shot.  It was an annual military medical requirement. I was fine with that.  Then the flu mist was created (in the dungeon of a sadist). 

Shots I can deal with. The flu mist, I can not.

I won’t tell you that the live attenuated vaccine is shot up your nose with an intranasal blast of roughly 1,000 PSI.

I’ll skip the disgusting details of how the goo, having been shotgunned into your cranium with inexcusably excessive force then seeps down the back of your throat, forward enough to taste the bitter, fowl fermentation of egg-based technology and too far back to do anything about it.

Then your body’s own mucus-making kitchen works overtime to try and ward off the hideousness of the strain of virus once incubated in chicken eggs and baby chicken kidney cells.

I will also leave out the part where the back of your eyes spasm with an itch you can’t scratch, while the public-facing side of your eyes water and your nose runs. Basically, all your facial orifices reject the repulsive concoction that could have been, should have been, a tasteless, speedy injection.

All I will say is that I much prefer the shot to the spray.

There are some legitimate ways of getting the shot versus the mist including: being outside the age range of 2-50, having a weakened immune system, caring for an immunocompromised person, being pregnant or not having a functioning spleen. Except for the spleen thing, none of the exclusions applied to me. I mean, I have a spleen, I’m just not sure what it does and therefore whether it functions.

So, at my annual physical, I am mist-bound, unless my spleen decides to stop functioning.

The technician who kicks off the annual physical process doesn’t check my spleen. She tests my eyes, checking my near and far vision, depth perception and whether I’m a candidate for medical marijuana — you know, for my glaucoma.

She shuts me in a tiny padded soundproof phone booth with only a headset, a wired jeopardy buzzer and the instructions to buzz in every time I hear a series of 3 beeps.  Correction.  What is, “Buzz in every time I hear a series of 3 beeps.”

A few more procedural steps to go before I’m escorted to the doctor’s exam room.

Today that procedural step is the flu prophylaxis. 

“Ok ma’am,” the technician hands me a tissue, a sure indication that the spray plunger is bound for my nose holes.

“Oh,” I feign total surprise that the mist has even made it to the U.S. military. “Don't you have the shot?”

I figure most people are syringe-shy so I’m happy to take one for the team and keep an intranasal applicator for the backroom supply.

“No ma’am. Our shots don’t come in until next week.”

YES! This is the information I need for my shot-not-mist strategy.

I pride myself on being a pretty convincing negotiator and as I’m about to be held hostage by an accumulation of vile live flu virus seeping down my throat, the stakes can’t be much higher.

“I see. Well, I’m happy to come back next week for the shot.”

“No ma’am, we have the mist now.”

As captain of team shot, I employ a battle of attrition against team mist, figuring I can waste enough time in the verbal sparring before the tech has to lay down her spray and either stab me with the needle or bypass the vaccine altogether in order to keep the doctor on schedule.

I also use the tactic known as “pulling rank.” I’m not proud of it, but if I have to choose between pulling rank and enduring two rounds of putrid post-nasal drip, I’ll pull rank.

I assure the tech I’ll cover for the delay in my flu prevention, that I’ll take ownership as the higher-ranking member.

The tissue the tech touted transforms to her flag of surrender and we agree on a future date for my flu shot.

My posture is tall as I follow my recently-defeated rival on a short parade to the exam room. One of the spectators along our route is Darlene, an Air Force doctor and long-time friend. It isn’t until I see her in the hall that I realize our assignments have overlapped us at the same base. We do as quick of a catch up as we can in the fleeting moments before I get escorted into another doctor’s exam room (although having Darlene as my doctor would have been fun).

With a wave and an, “I’ll call you,” I bid farewell to Darlene and take a seat in my doctor’s exam room. I lean back in the chair, clasping my hands behind my head in the catapult pose, essentially body language that shouts, “One day you’ll be as conniving and as in control as me.” Having staked my territorial claim of the space, the technician closes the door to the room, leaving me alone to bask in the banner day I’m having. I mean I’m not walking out with a prescription for glaucoma pot, but I’m also not sipping dreadful pharmaceutical cocktails served from my snout through the back of my throat. And I’ve caught up with a good friend.

And it’s that good friend who barges in through the door of her colleague’s exam room. 

No knock. 

No, “Are you decent?” 

Just the door flying open and a whirlwind of Darlene taking over the space in my victory vortex.

The tempest flies toward my imminent domain before I can unclasp my hands from behind my head. My interwoven fingers no longer a sign of dominance, but now restraints preventing me from shielding myself from hurricane Darlene.

The storm is headed toward me and at the eye of the storm is the violently destructive container of flu mist.

Not only can I smell the barometric change in the air, I can preemptively taste the foreboding drip of the nasal spray precipitation.

Darlene violates my privacy and security even further as she plants her non-flu-mist-wiedling hand firmly on the center of my chest, pushing me back into catapult position, translating the pose from dominance to submission.

I counter with a foot to her belly but the invasive length of the flu mist applicator gives her a reach advantage. Before I know it, half a dose of the live attenuated flu virus has been injected into my left nostril.

“Other side,” Darlene says in a sterile, unfeeling chair side manner.

With no time to react, my foot still in her gut, her hand still pinning me against the wall, the right flank of my nasal area is assaulted with the spray.

“Tissues are on the desk … I’ll call ya later!” 

And with that, just as soon as the tornado had made landfall, it was gone. There was no calm after the storm, only the post-nasal drip of a victory celebrated too early.