Kaplan-Myrth uses chalk to designate a waiting area outside her medical clinic in Ottawa First, it’s: “What the heck are they doing? That can’t be a street party.” Then they move to: “Wait . . . are they giving out shots?” And then there’s the nervous hedging: “Should I ask, just in case?” But eventually, most notice the sign, scrawled on a piece of paper ripped off an examination table and draped over a sandwich board borrowed from the neighbourhood bookstore: “JABAPALOOZA. COVID-19 VACCINE.
Kaplan-Myrth didn’t sleep well that night, fretting it would be a disaster, but by early the next morning she was vibrating with cheerful intensity on the sidewalk in front of the old house where her clinic is based. Family friends manned the city-supplied barricades that closed down each end of the block in the Glebe neighbourhood, while Kaplan-Myrth’s husband, Andy, her 17-year-old son, Noam, and 12-year-old daughter, Freida, darted around completing the final set-up.
Only the “bleeders” needed a bandaid, but anyone who wanted one got it as “a badge of honour.” Over the course of the day, there were many, many commemorative photos taken; at least once, the doctor staged a re-enactment of an injection for a patient who had missed documenting the magic moment.,” Kaplan-Myrth said to one man, as Harriet Yan got set to do her first vaccination. Some of the other residents had wobbly hands on their first few tries, but Yan just went for it.
Out in the waiting area afterward, she posed with her thumb up and her bandaged shoulder exposed for her husband to take a photo. “It’s the only needle I’ve ever wanted to get. There’s no other needle I’ve stood in line for or wanted,” she said, positively beaming. “I feel amazing.”