Yahoo Finance Hope, humour and zero-hours contracts: what four months as a vaccinator has taught me
Pushing a needle through fake skin is not much like the real thing. So I discovered when I vaccinated my first patient at a mass vaccination centre in north London. You feel for a person’s shoulder blade and give the injection two finger-widths below the tip of the shoulder, in the middle of the deltoid muscle. In training, you’re given a salmon-coloured “arm” of silicone sponge to practise on. In reality, arms – like the people they belong to – are unique; it takes a little while to confidently feel your way with each new person you close the NHS regulation blue curtain behind.
When I saw an advert for people willing to train as vaccinators in early January, I applied at once. The idea of being an active part of a historic vaccination rollout was thrilling. I have clinical experience as an assistant psychologist, can put people at ease and was very ready for a meaningful break from spending 10 hours a day looking at a screen alone in my flat. The training was delivered by a group of witty, absolutely zero-bullshit female clinicians wearing Crocs. The conversation was sharp; I adored them immediately. We covered infection control (including a sobering experiment with UV gel; trust me, you need to clean your thumbs), PPE, life support and, of course, learning to inject. I remember a surreal moment, looking around a room full of lawyers, medical students, psychotherapists, cycling instructors and shop managers in full PPE, all bound by the shared purpose of wanting to do something.
On my first shift, vaccinators were led to the pharmacy where an enormous fridge buzzed away. The only contents were two slim boxes on the middle shelf: the vaccine. It was the centre’s opening day and only a modest number of patients were booked in. The pharmacist joked about the anticlimax of seeing something so inconspicuous, but inwardly, I was squeaking. The pain, isolation, loss, boredom and fear people have experienced during the pandemic is complex and individual, but the hope of freedom sat in those vials, each containing a few crystalline millilitres of scientific brilliance. When I signed out my first vial, I stared at the label and grinned.
My stomach lurched when I welcomed my first patient into my vaccination “pod”. I was supervised by a nurse until she was comfortable with my technique, but the floor was mine. I felt the patient deserved to be greeted with an air of confidence and hoped that my face, flushed and clammy with emotion, didn’t give me away. In a year that has been defined by the lack of touch for so many, the moment my hand felt the warmth of this stranger’s skin felt profound. The first injection went well. So did the next 20. I was sad to leave when my shift ended, but so tired I could have fallen asleep standing up. That tiredness was delicious; the feeling of having made myself useful, after a year of feeling anything but. I kept my purple “vaccinator” lanyard on for my cycle home.
Meeting such a diverse range of people on each shift is wonderful, the part I look forward to most. I am told truncated stories of loss and anger, sometimes through tears, and it is a privilege to hear them. I knew navigating people’s emotions would be part of this role and it has been interesting to observe the subtle and more overt ways they come out; nervousness can present as coldness as much as it can with physical shaking and nausea. What each person needs to hear, or feel, is different; being able to listen is the only constant. Humour helps, too; a well-timed “bit” can break the seal of anxiety nicely. Doing all this at a reasonable pace informs that special tiredness at the end of a shift.
I had no reference point for the carefully choreographed dance of mass vaccination, but remain consistently blown away by the effort, organisation and spirit of the NHS staff who worked for months to set up our high-capacity centre. They make vaccinators feel supported and cared for on shift. I’ve always felt proud of our national institution but may now tattoo the blue-and-white logo on my forehead.
The only downside is being on a zero-hours contract with an agency with such poor communication it has become a permanent staff-room conversation. There is no rota; shifts are released without notification on an online programme and, if you don’t happen to check at the right time, you miss out. If you manage to book shifts, they always feel precarious.
The agency, Bank Partners, booked my first shift on a day the vaccination centre hadn’t even opened and, at 7am, vaccinators were turned away by confused security staff. Since then, several vaccinators (including me) have turned up to shifts that should have been cancelled; emails routinely go unanswered; payments have been late. Lumpy vaccine supply has, of course, informed how many vaccinators are needed, and we have been told that Bank Partners was short-staffed. But it can all leave a person feeling commodified, which is incongruous with the responsibility involved in delivering a vaccine this important. I suspect that, especially during this pandemic, many working in the NHS feel a similar tension between the quality of their working conditions and their drive to care for and help people.
Bank Partners declined to comment, but a spokesperson for the NHS trust I’m working in (UCLH) told me: “We made the decision to use Bank Partners, who look after our temporary staffing needs, because … it allows us to adjust our workforce according to demand.” This makes sense, but it was not made clear during the application process or the training what this model would entail for those within it.
Still, I will keep vaccinating until I’m no longer needed because I enjoy it immensely. Boasting may be gauche, but I know I’m good at this.