Figuring the odds and the ends
I got my flu shot Tuesday.
I was at the clinic on an unrelated matter and spotted a sign offering “Free Flu Shots.” Now I like free stuff, especially if it’s free stuff that contributes to my feeling good – and when it comes to keeping me feeling good, free vaccine is enen better than free beer.
That’s why I’ll be getting my COVID booster as soon as it’s ready – even if I have to pay for it.
I had a curious conversation a few days ago with a woman who expressed serious reservations about getting that shot – for COVID, for the flu, or pretty much anything else. She wasn’t sure the odds of dying from the disease were worse than the odds of having some sort of reaction to the vaccine.
Off the top of my head, I couldn’t be certain if those numbers were right or not … what I could be certain of was that, as far as I was concerned, it didn’t make a hoot in a holler’s worth of difference … I wasn’t getting a shot to keep from dying; I was getting a shot to keep from getting sick.
I really don’t like getting sick.
And if the momentary “ouch” of a shot or the temporary itchy, inconvenience of wearing a mask lowers my odds of getting sick, a sharp needle and a face diaper certainly aren’t too much to bear.
Really, it’s all about the odds.
It’s why I buckle my seat belt.
It doesn’t take a PhD mathemagician to spell out how the odds are very much against my involvement in a major auto accident making a quick trip from home to Wally World to replenish the TP supply. However, I also know that the odds are not nearly so favorable against Officer Friendly pulling up behind me while stopped for the signal at Franklin and Sarnia, making the observation that I’m illegally unharnessed, and, before you can say “Yes, your Honor,” I’m out better than a hundred bucks.
That’s why I buckle up.
The fact that buckling up before I fired up my old Honda in Eagan served me well when a sleepy goomba in a little red Toyota smashed into me head on just south of Red Wing doesn’t routinely enter my mind.
Yeah, I damn near hit the jack pot on that one. Thanks to the mandatory seat belt law, the car was dead; I was fine.
I don’t know how many times that COVID shot I got back in March has kept me breathing freely and on the green side of the sod. I could see that Toyota swerve into my lane; I can’t see the virus fly up my nose. I can tell you about the seat belt. The vaccine, well, I’ll never be sure.
And I’m OK with that. There’s really no way of telling what stuff doesn’t happen. Trying to figure the odds on my not dying of COVID is as foolish as trying to figure how many times I haven’t fallen down the stairs or choked to death on a mouthful of chicken.
The odds are against those things happening too.
But they do.
Still, my doctor says it’s good for me to take the stairs and I have no mortal aversion to wing night. I just use the handrail and chew before swallowing.
And I get vaccinated, because three centuries of medical experience has demonstrated beyond any doubt that vaccination keeps people from getting sick.
Likewise, I’ll put on a mask without complaining, because it’s been demonstrated that a mask reduces the amount of pathogens an infected individual spews into the air, and fewer airborne pathogens reduces the odds of other people getting sick.
It’s not perfect. Nothing’s perfect. Nothing’s 100 percent safe, 100 percent effective. Life’s played for higher stakes than anything to be found in Las Vegas and no one has an unlimited number of chips.
In the end, it’s all about the odds.