From the Editor

The Monster Mask

One of my neighborhood destinations as a child was to visit the Banks Family, their caretaker Ivers, and the barn kittens that inhabited dresser drawers in the farm’s barn. I recall meeting Mrs. Banks in her entryway, standing at the base of the home’s elegant wooden steps, and wondering, in a childlike way—as I watched her steady herself on poles attached to her arms—how she made her way upstairs. The house was lost in a fire many years ago—a smaller home now rests on the original stone foundation—but the memory remains.

The memory of a plane ride I took over the Finger Lakes as a child, after winning the ride by raising the most money for the local March of Dimes initiative, remains vivid as well. For an isolated rural child, it was an adventure beyond measure, but it was the sight of Mrs. Banks and children crippled by polio, not the prize, that inspired me to collect sponsors and walk for the cause.

I was born early in the 1960s, when polio vaccines were just being made available. People remembered, were still living with crippling remnants of the disease. There were still children in the US walking around with braces on their legs. There are still children contracting polio and suffering that fate; polio remains endemic in Afghanistan and Pakistan and those two “hot spots” continue to threaten other vulnerable regions. Vaccination is key, and the Global Polio Eradication Initiative is, per their website, “focusing on ‘every missed child’ (in Pakistan and Afghanistan) ensuring even the most vulnerable communities are served with vaccination services.”

It was also in the 1960s that stand-alone measles (1963), mumps (1967) and rubella vaccines (1969) were first licensed. (The MMR combine vaccine was licensed in 1971.)  Getting these early immunizations was part of our childhood experience, and although I suspect these earlier vaccinations only had a fraction of the intensive oversight and statistical data that exists with the trials and administration for 2019-nCoV, I never recall our receiving the shots as children being questioned—it just was.

For many people, the same has been true with the COVID-19 vaccinations, it was never a question of if, always a question of when—and the sooner the better. Although I knew that vaccinations would be the key to lessening the domestic and global impact of the epidemic, I, nonetheless, questioned the efficacy and risks associated with the COVID-19 vaccination. I never get the flu shot despite being in a higher-risk age group and rarely get sick. I wash my hands, avoid getting coughed on, and boost my immunity by taking care of self. The thought of getting the vaccination frightened me.

Ultimately, my decision to get the COVID-19 vaccination was not about me. It harkened back to those earlier experiences, about the what ifs. What if too few people get vaccinated and this enables more virulent variants to adapt and spread—perhaps variants that impact children more directly? What if I get sick and get someone else sick who is older, more fragile, less able to survive? What if this is still a major threat as I age and become more vulnerable?

Although I question big medicine in the same way I question big business in general (money does talk), and hesitated at first to be part of this big “experiment,” as I have heard it described by some people around me who have refused the vaccine, like polio before, seeing the losses and devastation on the screen and close to home—like Mrs. Banks at the bottom of her steps and my schoolyard peers—it was clear that the personal risk (especially given the outcome of initial trials) far, far outweighed the risk. 

Now that things are opening up, I am most fearful of the “masked monster” that is not masked. Less than 60% of New York State residents have received the vaccine (the percentage is even lower in the county where I live). Yet, when I venture out—into a world that has been shut down for over a year—I do so with apprehension, as even in crowded stores almost no one is wearing a mask. I can’t tell people to wear masks any more than I can tell people to get vaccinated (or vote for that matter). Despite being vaccinated, I wore a mask when I initially ventured out. Then the mask slowly came off—in part due to the perceptions of those around me. The very thing that initially offered us all some protection has now become so politicized that it stands as a liability that makes us all more vulnerable, especially the unvaccinated, and increases the threat to those most near and dear. 

As a child, the view from that little plane was breathtaking. As we flew over the Finger Lakes I asked the pilot to follow Six Mile Creek home. He flew low over our house and the farm on Banks Road. From up there, the people on the ground were mere dots—small, insignificant, and so very fragile.

D.E. Bentley
Editor Owl Light News