The vaccine rollout in Japan is administered from a local level. Each city has designated vaccine centers. A person could receive it at a clinic of their choice, but that also depends on the availability of the clinic, possibly causing further delay. Unlike in the US, I couldn’t just show up and demand to be jabbed. Because of the National Health Insurance system, everyone must have the right paperwork sent by City Hall. Once that paperwork is received, this is what a person can expect to follow.
Step 1: Go to a vaccination center. Centers are usually a local community centers. There are clear signs, in Japanese, indicating where to park, as well as parking attendants to direct you to parking spaces. Like many involved in this effort, I doubt they get paid, other than a small stipend. This is Japan’s communal spirit at its best, trying to help its citizens, which I am not, or those living here, which I have been for over ten years, get through this time of crisis. Everyone wears a mask, either or one made of cloth, or a disposable H95. Before stepping out of the car, I do the same. I keep a box of in my glove compartment, always having one available. I have gotten used to the smell of my breath. Initially, it was distasteful, but after understanding that I need to have better oral hygiene, I have grown comfortable with how I smell. A blessing in disguise. The first step toward better health is always personal.
A board instructs me on which line to get into. They are separated by appointment times. My appointment is set for 11:30. I’m early. Really early. I ask if I have to wait in the other line, slightly embarrassed that I’d be there all by myself. It’s Japanese to not want to stick out like a sore thumb. The nail that stands up gets hammered down. The volunteer tells me I don’t have to, and I bow my head, thanking her. “Arigatou gozaimasu.”
After less than five minutes, I am at the front of the line, about to enter into the main pavilion. Before entering, my temperature is taken. The electric thermometer read 36.4 Celsius. I had taken it at home, and the reading was 35.3 Celsius. I had jumped a whole degree. In Japan, 36 is standard, and 37.5 meant a fever, a primary symptom of coronavirus. I was allowed to enter the vaccination area.
Step 2: Showing paperwork. I took out the documents City Hall had sent. Another staff member looked through the documents, making sure my answers to a pre-screening questionnaire didn’t put me in danger of receiving the Pfizer vaccine.
She asks me to check a box and sign my name, showing that I have decided to get vaccinated of my own accord, and without anyone forcing me to. I do so, and then enter another meandering line, its floor dotted to remind us to socially distance ourselves. We all seemed one meter apart, rather than the recommended two.
Standing there in line as it snaked along toward a row of staff operating PCs, I thought about whether I was doing this of my own accord or not. I couldn’t see how I was not doing this of my own volition. Ahead of me in line was a young boy, probably of junior high school age, with his mother. Along with my age group, Japan had opened up vaccinations for children between the ages of 12 and 18. Watching their interaction, it was probably his mother’s idea. Judging from his behavior, he didn’t seem bothered by it. Actually, teenagers not enrolled in universities are demanding that the vaccine be made available to them as well. Here, the question of vaccines doesn’t appear to be the problem. Everybody and their mothers wanted them, literally.
Step 3: Confirm your identity. I hand them my national health insurance card. My driver’s license or my foreign residence card would have also been fine.
She asks me for my name and birthdate. Then she asks me my temperature. Initially, I think about which one to disclose, the reading from home, or the one just before entering the pavilion. Japanese people are real sticklers about numbers regarding healthcare. I knew this from the reaction to my BMI every year during my physical. In a country where so many people are thin and slender, explaining that muscle mass weighs more is pointless. It goes right over their head, perceived more as an excuse than a possible reason. 35.3 C might raise suspicions. I tell her 36.4 C, and she giggles and looks at me, saying, “Just barely.” Huh?
I take a seat in one of the three rows of chairs, moving up one every time the one before me is vacated. We all wait for the staff leader. I assume he’s making sure we really are healthy enough to get the shot. Considering it has only been about ten minutes since I entered the building, I doubt anybody feels any differently than when they had arrived. Maybe it gave people a chance to back out. I sat and moved, sat and moved for another minute or so before it was my own turn in front of him.
He asks me a question, and I respond that I am an American. He looks at me and asks the question again, slower this time. For the second time, I give my name and birthdate. He looks me over and ask if I am feeling alright. “Genki,” I replied.
He hands back my paperwork and tells me to get a number.
Step 4: Taking a shot. Another volunteer handed me a numbered ticket, and directed me to sit anywhere. There were probably chairs for around two hundred people, with only about ten people filling them. It seemed like overkill. Most likely, it was just being prepared in case large numbers arrived. Or it gave people ample opportunity not to go through with it.
I sat toward the front, and waited for my number to appear on a large flat screen TV. It was so fast I missed when it appeared on screen, but a nice lady guided me to the correct injection station, Station J.
The healthcare worker once again asks for my name and birthdate. It is the third time in 15 minutes I verify who I am. She asks me if I have any allergies to isopropyl alcohol. After telling her I’d be fine, she raises the needle and the vaccine is injected into my shoulder. “You’re all done,” her Japanese motherly, grandmotherly, comforting at this stage, reminding me I had nothing to worry about in the first place.
“Hontou ni arigatou gozaimashita,” I thank her, as she laughs, grateful for being appreciated. She might be staff and it might be her job, but to me at that moment, no one in my life was more important. Being here made all the difference.
Step 5: The final countdown. My paperwork is returned to me in the same clear file folder I arrived with, along with a timer for 15 minutes. I follow a path to a designated area to make sure there are no immediate adverse effects.
The area is beside the meandering line I had waited in a few minutes prior. I look at the other people in line, the children and their mothers, and I put a giant smile on my face. I wanted everyone in line to know that they were doing the right thing, and that everything would be fine. It occurred to me then my giant smile was impossible to see under my mask. I’ve worn it so much I forget it’s there. It’s like socks or underwear, a comfortable essential before stepping outside to meet the world.
What could I do then to make everyone feel less nervous about what they were about to do? I could sit in an open way, to show everyone how good I felt. However, I could suddenly feel the stiffness in my arm where the needle entered, which was to be expected. I decided not to do anything. Soon enough, everyone in here would feel the way I do. They came here voluntarily to feel this way.
When the timer rang, I felt fine. Other than a little stiffness in my arm, I felt like much better than I had before arriving. I felt so much better than I had in January or February. I felt so much better than before the pandemic began in January 2020. I felt so much better than before 17,000 people in Japan and over 700,000 people in the United States had died to COVID-19. I felt better now that I was less likely to be included in that statistic.
I went to the last checkpoint in the center. I gave a thumbs up when the woman there asked me if I was feeling okay. I had given everyon here something small to laugh about. My second appointment three weeks after went exactly like my first one had. I thanked everyone the same. “Hontou ni arigatou gozaimashita!”
It meant much more than thank you very much. It meant thank you for ensuring that we could all continue together as best we could. It meant thank you for giving me a feeling of stability that I hadn’t had for the last year and a half. I could go home and get on with my life. Even though it took longer to get vaccinated than it would have if I was in the United States, there was proof and a national record that I had actually received my vaccination. I was contributing to the Public Health, to the public good. I was contributing to my familial good. Although my wife and I were eligible for vaccination, my two children were not. The best I could do to protect them from COVID-19 was to do whatever I could to prevent me from getting it, or from dying from it. And lastly, it meant thankyou for making the whole thing as easy and as painless as possible. And all of those 5 steps began with me taking the first one.