Tales from the line: Editor, daughter take on H1N1 vaccine

My 14-year-old daughter and I settled on a curb in the early morning darkness with some satisfaction.

At 6:45 a.m., we were only about 160 people from the front of the line for H1N1 flu vaccines being doled out by the Lake County Health Department at a site in Round Lake Beach.

Wrapped in blankets, we weren't nearly as settled-in as those with sleeping bags and lawn chairs who'd already been waiting for hours. Mindful that Kane County had set a goal of giving 800 doses per hour for its own clinics last Monday, I anticipated a relatively painless wait. Kane hadn't met its goal, but our place in line still led me to dream of successfully completing our mission not very long after Round Lake's 8 a.m. opening time.

Emily would get to school by third period; I'd get to work before my 10:30 a.m. meeting.

Meanwhile, the line grew quickly. By the time a man pounded a sign into the ground announcing the H1N1 clinic, the line already had passed him, blocking the sign from view. The line wrapped alongside the parking lot of the Round Lake Area Park District Sports Center, down the road and through the parking lot of the post office next door, perhaps 1,000 people strong.

Children and pregnant women were present, along with others who had no visible signs of a risk factor that would make them a high priority for vaccination.

The form I had filled out ahead of time asked whether the person being vaccinated had asthma, heart disease, diabetes or a host of other disorders, some of which would confer high priority for vaccination, but no verification was requested. Anyone in line could have gotten a vaccination.

Shortly after 8 a.m., the door to the sports center opened. We stood up. The line began moving as those in front were ushered to a side door leading to the room set aside for the clinic.

Then, the line stopped. And stayed stopped.

A news helicopter hovered overhead and CBS Channel 2 and ABC 7 set up shop in the parking lot. Health department workers handed out forms and bright green wristbands, they said to show who'd get the vaccine and to protect against line jumpers. They ushered a few visibly ill people - a woman who'd had surgery, another who'd recently given birth - to chairs inside to wait until their turns came.

Those around me in line were polite but increasingly impatient. A toddler wailed. Families traded off going to cars or inside to warm up. We were hungry. The line barely crawled.

Finally, at about 10:45 a. m., Emily and I were waved into the clinic room. Forms were checked, but no residency verification required. After a brief wait we were sent over to a table.

To Emily's relief, she qualified for the nasal mist vaccine, though shots also were on hand. After 20 minutes inside - and declining a recommendation that we wait a few minutes more to make sure there would be no adverse reaction - we were done and I was grateful to be free of swine-flu worries.

Outside, the line had not diminished a great deal. Emily and I had been there four hours, but for many others it was going to be an exceptionally long day.