Laura Berman

Scoring H1N1 vaccine requires vigilance

Pssst. Whisper, whisper. Allow me to let you in on something.

Maybe you didn't stand in line for Bruce Springsteen or U2's last concert. Maybe you avoided the holiday season's mad rush on the Nintendo Wii. A week ago I couldn't have named the last time I stood in line for two hours awaiting a new experience.

But now?

Thursday afternoon, in the hail, then freezing rain, then larger hail. At The Palace of Auburn Hills. With my parents and 8-year-old daughter and a polite but testy crowd of thousands: mothers pushing strollers, adults wearing face masks, bawling toddlers clutching Dora the Explorer coloring books, men in Spartan green and Michigan blue, young and old, few teens, many people pumping hand sanitizer, all hip to the world health phenomenon that's bringing people together: H1N1.

We don't say "swine flu."

So no, it isn't Woodstock, or even any fun. Let's stay clear: This isn't a fun year in Detroit and standing in line for a flu shot is entirely in keeping with the local ambience.

A colleague complains that the government has utterly failed us. "You can't find the stuff," he complains. He misses the flip side: The vaccine is rare.

Scoring a vaccine requires the kind of vigilance a 14-year-old practices to find out about the next Taylor Swift concert. To be honest, I only discovered the allure of finding the stuff recently, after overhearing whispers.

"There's vaccine right now!"

Where? (And how does she know? Who told her?)

"In Commerce Township. Until 7 p.m."

She wasn't just any person: She was the kind of woman who knows when the county health department is going to suddenly, with little warning, begin distributing a few thousand vials of vaccine to the lucky first six or 10,000 people who walk through the door.

There's the venue issue: "Isn't it like being a homeless hurricane victim?" asks the colleague.

A bit. But once the hail subsides and the line winds its way inside the Palace, there are conveniently located restrooms every few feet and vendors (Twizzlers for $1.50, chips for $1, water and pop for $2). The line takes on a festive air, as we shuffle around the arena perimeter, marching inexorably to the needles and mist area.

"Your life should be more grand entrance-ish," reads a billboard.

No kidding.

Hand in the registration papers, trudge for another 30 minutes, and then finally the tables beckon: A child -- OK, my child -- says: "Mom, I want the mist, I want the mist, I want the mist. But if I get the mist, how will I overcome my fear of needles?"

Dunno, kid. Oakland County inoculated 10,600 people Thursday: everyone who showed up and stuck out an arm, thigh or nose between 2 p.m. and 8 p.m., including the last person in line at 8 p.m. And, yes, the long and winding line is the opposite of the Space Mountain queue: Here you wait two hours as tension mounts and babies cry, not for a thrill but for a shot.

But this particular seasonal disorder is over for me and last week's band of hardy flu adventurers. Now it's your turn to monitor the Web sites and listen to the whispers. Pssst.

Laura Berman's column runs Tuesday and Thursday in Metro and Sundays online. Please call her at 313-222-2032 to share your flu shot anxieties.