Personal account: Unexpected things often happen – or my personal Corona vaccination experience

Gaby Tronnier

Friday evening. I'm entering my working hours from my home office when three emails arrive in quick succession. I glance over at my computer and see that my team leader, Heike Isensee, has written. In the preview pane, I read the subject: Vaccination. Huh? What's next?.

I start reading. My blood pressure rises. I can hardly believe it. The long-awaited prick – it's almost here. So, I immediately get to work. Armed with my phone and coffee, I begin. Speaking of coffee, Mr. Kretschmann, you can certainly count on an invitation for coffee as a thank you.

I launch my internet browser. The command line of all-knowing Google appears. With trembling hands, I type www.impfterminservice.de. The registration form appears instantly. To quote Boris Becker's advertising slogan: "I'm in." Incredible, I think, and so beautifully clear.

Using the mouse, I click the small downward-pointing arrow in the upper of the two framed fields. The individual federal states appear, and I select Baden-Württemberg. I select Meßstetten as the vaccination center in the same way. My selection is then displayed in the "Detailed Information" field. I'm asked to note this down. I ignore this prompt, thinking I can remember it later. I click the magenta button (like the one used by Telekom for "Help Here") to proceed to the vaccination center. I'm asked whether my eligibility for a COVID-19 vaccination has already been verified, i.e., whether I have a referral code. I truthfully answer no, which I can do by clicking on the designated field.

A seemingly endless text, riddled with paragraph symbols, greets me on the next page. Ugh, heavy stuff. I bravely battle my way through the jumble of letters and stop at paragraph 3, section 2. There it says: "...people with chronic illnesses such as COPD..." It's there in black and white, smiling back at me. I happily realize I'm one of the lucky ones. I answer "yes" to the question about belonging to one of the mentioned groups, then type in my age and finally run the quick check.

Reaching the next screen, I think, "Now it's getting serious." I have to come clean. Slowly, I type my email address into the designated field—making sure I don't make a mistake. Then the system asks for my mobile phone number. Luckily, it's so well designed that neither the German country code (+49) nor the first digit of the mobile number (always 0) needs to be entered. I essentially enter the rest of my mobile number and request a transfer code.

Almost instantly, a verification PIN appears in my phone's message list. It's marked with the note: "Valid for 10 minutes." Now I need to act quickly, no time to waste. Who knows what else I might need to do? So I position the mouse cursor in the PIN entry field and copy the PIN from my phone. Clicking the VERIFICATION button takes me to the next page.

Oh no, I did something wrong. I've seen this page before. Relieved, I notice a pop-up at the top of the page prompting me to check my email. So I switch from my web browser to my email program. Damn, nothing's arrived, and I only have 10 minutes. Then it hits me. To see the new email immediately, I need to use the "Send/Receive All Folders" function (or press F9 in Outlook). I press F9, and instantly an email appears from the sender noreply@impfterminservice.de.

Great, this is how it should continue. The email I just opened contains a referral code. Below it, I click the "BOOK APPOINTMENTS" button and am getting much closer to my vaccination appointment. At the same time, I'm informed that the two necessary vaccination appointments should be booked together. Now that's what I call practical! And even though I've been working on a computer every day my entire professional life, I suddenly feel quite excited when I click the "SEARCH APPOINTMENTS" button.

Several rows of possible appointment pairs are displayed. By clicking on the circular box next to the date row, I immediately select the first appointment on Tuesday at 10:15 a.m. I can't seem to keep up with my thoughts.

The next page asks for my personal information. I eagerly fill it out. Then I confirm my vaccination appointment by clicking the "BOOK APPOINTMENT" button. Great. Onward, I'm not quite finished, because I still need to click the "CONFIRM EMAIL" button. This announces that I will receive the booking confirmation after successful confirmation.
So I switch back from my internet browser to my email program and press the F9 key. Ping, pling. The header reads "Confirmation of appointment booking." For once, I'm impressed by German precision. I quickly open both emails and send them to the printer.

I jump up, clench both fists, and shout "Tschacka!" My lung exercise coach, Peddar, would definitely comment on that movement. Unbelievable. I'm as happy as a clam, like a rock in tea, just like a true East Frisian. Now, first, I need to catch my breath and stay calm. Think. What else needs to be done? Dig out my vaccination record, put my ID card and health insurance card in a folder. Just don't forget anything.
Oh yes, our dear Heike also gave us the tip to have our family doctor issue a certificate of our vaccination eligibility according to §3, paragraph 2. The informal confirmation is quick to write and print. We just need to get it signed on Monday.

Done, only 4 more sleeps.

After dinner, strange thoughts keep creeping into my mind. I just don't want to get sick beforehand. Hopefully, it won't be a migraine attack. My body simply has to cooperate, so the whole weekend is dedicated to plenty of exercise in the fresh air: cycling, running, and long walks, topped off with an ice cream. To celebrate. Luckily, I can still go to work on Monday, thus keeping these bad vibes at bay.

Tuesday morning, 7:00 a.m., time to get up. Hurray, no migraine. What could possibly go wrong now? My husband and I enjoy our breakfast together. Afterwards, I retreat back to my home office. Then I make us sandwiches and prepare drinks, because according to the press reports, the wait can be quite long. Apparently, there are people—whom I would personally compare to those so-called "towel-laying" tourists—who position themselves with the Luma magazine in front of the Paul Horn Arena in Tübingen in the middle of the night. Unbelievable.

So we're well-prepared and set off. True to the German motto "punctuality means 5 minutes early," we arrive at the access road to the Meßstetten military base. We continue very slowly. Many empty barracks and deserted roads. I'm just waiting for hay bales to fly around our ears at any moment, like in a Western.
Fortunately, nothing of the sort happens and after about a kilometer we reach the former officers' mess.

Well, this is a nice place to get vaccinated, I think. We park and are surprised to find hardly any cars, and the expected queue consists of just 14 people, mostly young. Huh, how does this work? The mystery is immediately solved. A woman appears at the door, calls the next group with an appointment at 10:10 a.m., and leads them into the casino. Oh, how wonderful, for once I don't have to stand in line during the pandemic. My husband and I enter the hallowed halls with the very next group. We are immediately instructed to always follow the yellow arrows on the floor.

Everything looks very tidy. No helpers, doctors, or security personnel cross our path to the hand sanitizer dispenser and subsequent temperature check. It's a shame, really, because a little refreshment with snacks and cold drinks wouldn't be bad either. We dutifully follow the yellow arrows and arrive at registration. After handing over my appointment confirmation and ID, I'm asked whether I want to be vaccinated for professional or medical reasons. I answer for medical reasons and have an unidentifiable symbol drawn on my form.

Turn left, keeping your eyes on the ground, and continue on. After a few meters, a helper greets us and asks us to take a seat in the large hall. We go in, sit down, and suddenly there's a crackling sound. A deep voice rings out, and a speaker appears on the large television on the wall. A documentary informs those present about the pandemic, the coronavirus, the various vaccines, and how they work. Mine, from AstraZeneca, is also included. It's based on common cold viruses that normally infect chimpanzees. These viruses are supplemented with a part of the genetic material of SARS-CoV-2. So, practically "disguised." This tricks the body into thinking it's infected, thus triggering the production of antibodies. Well, no one's ever explained it to me like that before. That's interesting.

While I'm still processing what I just heard, we move on to the desk at the next corner. Here I have to show my health insurance card, and the woman asks me if I have my vaccination certificate with me. I nod and confirm that I do. She doesn't want to see it. "Later," she says.

Following the markings, we continue along the corridors. Even from a distance, we can see the backs of the rows of vaccination booths. In front of them are many chairs, a few of which are occupied. We take our places at the back of the line. It reminds me of a game of musical chairs. I always enjoyed that game. A young man watches the scene and grins kindly. I think he's thinking the same thing as me.

We move forward, chair by chair. It's really quick. At the end of the row, we can already see what happens after we move up. Chains with LEDs are stretched around the entrances to the cubicles, flashing cheerfully in red and green, signaling us entry after just a few seconds. The third cubicle from the left is ours. My husband and I look at each other and around. It's quite spacious. A young, tattoo-savvy assistant asks me for my vaccination certificate. He offers us a seat, and we wait with bated breath to see what happens next.

I perk up. The sound of brisk footsteps approaches the booth. And suddenly, there he is, my personal savior in camouflage and combat boots. "Good afternoon," Sander. "You'd like to get vaccinated." Immediately, a thousand questions pile up in my head, forming towering clouds. They all scream, "Ask me!" I don't know what to ask first, so I tell him I have the metabolic disorder Alpha-1 Antitrypsin Deficiency and I'm not sure if AstraZeneca is the right vaccine for me. He frowns slightly. A sign that he doesn't know what to make of my condition. But patiently, stuttering slightly as he tries to pronounce Alpha-1 Antitrypsin Deficiency, he explains that the stuff is good. But the Russian one is even better, because it uses two species of monkeys. Oh yeah, I'd just heard about the monkey species. And what was the name of that stuff again? Sputnik or something?

„"Did you tolerate other vaccinations well?" he asks me briskly. I nod, taking his nod as encouragement. Somewhat relieved, I think, no time for chit-chat, let's get down to business. That means rolling up my sleeves and getting on with it. "Count to three." I have to chuckle. How does that sound? I certainly hope everyone here can count to three. So I start counting in my head and look expectantly at Dr. Sander. "Just the plaster now," he says, already scribbling his signature in the vaccination booklet. Um, what? "I didn't feel a thing," I say, surprised. He grins and replies, "Well, I've been doing it since December 27th." Okay then, I think, and thank him politely.

We leave the cabin and find ourselves in a sort of waiting room. An older woman informs us that we have to wait here for 15 minutes. She also asks if we'd like something to drink. We gratefully accept. She notes the time, and we sit down. We watch curiously what's going on around us. Nothing out of the ordinary, really, as most people are talking quietly or dozing. But then, suddenly, an older woman rushes up to check out with her daughter in tow and explains to the somewhat startled-looking helper in broad Swabian dialect: "I han keia zeid mehr. I muss hoim kocha. Mai Mo hedd hungr." We have to laugh. These pensioners just never have any time.

After I handed in my form, we strolled to the parking lot and drove home at a leisurely pace. All the excitement had vanished, replaced by a feeling of inner peace. After our lunch together, I spent the rest of the day working from home and felt fantastic. I have to admit, I removed the bandage that evening to check if there was actually blood. There was. Phew. .

My personal experience with the Corona vaccination will always remain a fond memory.

Finally, I would like to thank everyone who made this step back towards a more carefree life possible for me. Thank you, and I hope you all stay healthy.

Gaby Tronnier, March 8, 2021