THE MEDICARE FLU SHOT LINE

My doctor at the Blue House Clinic lost his nurse, probably because he couldn't pay her enough. In order to serve the mountain people out here, he takes everyone who comes, no matter whether they have good insurance or only Medicare. So he must not be able to pay his nurses very much, and when they get a better job, they leave. His last nurse was the best he'd ever had, but now she's gone too. As a consequence, he isn't giving flu shots this year. This means I needed to find a different place to get the shot. 

          Noticing that they were available at Bi-Mart yesterday, I drove in to town. I figured I'd probably have to stand in line, so I brought Louise Erdrich's latest novel, THE PAINTED DRUM, to keep me company while I waited--I'd seen on TV how long those lines can get. Well, this one didn't emerge out the front door and stretch out into the parking lot, so that was a good sign. I went in. There were close to thirty old people waiting in a queue. I walked up behind the last one, a white haired woman in that distinctive color of pink that I've always sworn to myself I would never wear, and she was very sweet, telling me that I should go up to the table and get myself a form to fill out, and that she would save my place. So I did that, and noticed that I needed to put down my Medicare B#. Well I only have Medicare A -- just for hospital care. But the woman said that didn't matter so long as I had supplemental insurance, which I do. (I'm not used to this Medicare dance yet.) Then I went back to stand behind the Pink Lady. 

          The line barely moved. "They have only one person giving shots; last year they had two." Comments in low voices up and down the line. "At Safeway last year they had four!" People shifted and shuffled. "They should have folding chairs! They had benches last year."

          So we waited. I read my novel, and after forty minutes the line had moved through maybe fifteen people with fifteen still in front of me. The thought came to leave the line and go to the pharmacy where for $28 I could get the shot without waiting. Then, no, I thought. This is what most people over sixty-five do every year, and now I'm part of that crowd. I want to experience it.

          The ancient man behind me commented that he wished he had his WPA shovel to turn upside down for a chair. Another fellow laughed and said, "If you worked for the WPA you remember back a farside longer than me!" Then the WPA man allowed that he hadn't worked long for the WPA and actually worked his way up from mail carrier to postmaster in the postal service. "When you have to go to the door for special delivery, you never know what you'll see!" He laughed. "I could tell you such stories!" I closed my book and turned around.

          He told us he'd retired thirty years ago, and when I asked what he'd been doing with his time, he pointed at his smiling, silver-haired wife. "I work for her," he said.

          It turned out that they live right by McKee Bridge, an old covered bridge we always show visitors. So I exclaimed about that, and the women said, "My family built that bridge. We're the McKee's." Her husband, the postman, said, "She IS the McKee Bridge." So then I got the scoop on the pioneers of this area.

          "My friends from the East, where our family came from originally, think I'm silly when I talk about the settlers here back in 1830, and the old buildings from then." She said. "They laugh at me. 'Old!?' Back there they have buildings from 1650! Things from 1800 sound NEW to them!"  

          Suddenly the conversation was cut short by a tap on my back. "Your forms?" I'd been inching forward all along, my back to the front of the line, and it was my turn for the flu shot.

          Next year don't expect me at the Blue House Clinic. It's the Medicare Flu Shot Line for me!