If my dad gets his second jab, can I hug him? It’s been nearly a year

Her 88-year-old father’s second shot of the Pfizer vaccine has been cancelled. Charlotte Cripps is livid

Where does it leave us? What immunity does my dad have? We have no idea. It’s a guessing game and we are not out of the woods by any means (Amara May)

When I start punching Jonathan Van-Tam’s face on my laptop screen, I know I’m angry. “My dad needs his second jab of the coronavirus vaccine!” I yell. “How can you do this?”  

The deputy chief medical officer was defending the government’s new vaccine regime of delaying the second dose of the Pfizer vaccine from 21 days to three months. But at the weekend, my dad was due to be 98 per cent immune from Covid – now what? 

It’s almost like winning the lottery and then realising you’ve got one number wrong. I’m a single mum with two kids. I’m also caring for my 88-year old dad. Consequently, I spend my entire life working out how not to pass on Covid. It was going to be one big celebration; I could finally stop spraying myself with Dettol when I drop off food and ditch the bitter cold al fresco dining in the garden. I could even, dare I say it, give him a hug? It’s been nearly a year. 

It’s not that I’m against saving as many lives as possible and getting as many people partially immune as possible, but even the drug company Pfizer/BioNTech, which made the vaccine, stated that two doses are required for maximum protection against Covid. Not only that but there is a chance the virus can mutate if it enters a half-immunised person and learn to bypass the jab. It’s been tried and tested – why can’t they stick to the plan?  

My 12-step sponsor calls as I’m shouting “I don’t believe it!” while hoovering the flat manically.  I tell her: “It’s not a war on the virus – it’s a PR exercise, the government is just trying to reach a vaccine target!” She says: “Have you tried doing anything for yourself lately? A hot bubble bath? Some ‘me’ time?” 

I don’t have time for touchy-feely conversations; the last time I had “me” time was when I blacked out in the early 1990s. 

I’m on tenterhooks. I’m feeling like I used to when I first started dating Alex – is it on or off? I’m waiting for that phone call from my dad’s GP to end it all. One minute I feel ecstatic, the next like I’ve been run over by a lorry. What is going on?  One minute the government is saying schools are safe and staying open, and then a few days later they are closed nationwide. How can I trust them? 

I’m hoping that with the sheer volume of admin heaped on GP surgeries to reschedule appointments for 12 weeks’ time, they will let it go ahead. Even GPs say it is “grossly unfair” – so why don’t they defy the government? By Wednesday, I get good news when my dad’s 85-year-old best friend calls me from the local vaccine centre in Barnes: “I’ve had the second jab, Char,” he says. “Tell your dad it is all going to plan.” It’s all looking good; I take a big sigh of relief and start cheering. 

But the next day my dad gets a call to say it’s cancelled.  My heart sinks – “Noooooooooooo.” I’m crushed. I’m rendered speechless by the disappointment. I’m not going to take it lying down. I’m preparing for a fight. I tell my dad to be ready and waiting; we are going down to the vaccine centre to wait at the back of the line; it’s the final day of second doses delivered in the correct timeframe. Surely there must be a few leftover vials at the end of the day. Cancellations? It’s the last chance saloon. 

Could I chain myself to the railings outside and say I’m not leaving until he gets it while my dad waits in the warmth of the car listening to Radio 4 until they agree? I could threaten not to eat – I need to lose weight anyway; it’s a double win. But when we get there, there is no queue. My campaign was doomed because we were two hours late to even try it.  

I’m looking for someone to blame. Perhaps it’s not the Tory government. It was my dad’s rash that delayed the first injection.  Why did it vanish the moment he had the vaccine? Now we have missed the boat with the second dose. 

Where does it leave us? What immunity does my dad have? We have no idea. It’s a guessing game and we are not out of the woods by any means. Van-Tam is quoting figures of 89 per cent immunity between 15 and 21 days after the first dose – but for how long? Is he pulling figures out of his head? There is no research.

The truth is, I can’t let my guard down. To make matters worse, I’m facing the Beast from the East this week as I sit in my dad’s garden. I’ve bought him a thermal vest from M&S and one of Alex’s old puffer jackets to wear when I come over. I get frostbite through my gloves but it’s worth it.  My dad is rather more philosophical. He tells me calmly: “Don’t worry. I have some immunity. They will call to reschedule.” 

He is like a port in the storm while I’m losing my head. I feel calm for a minute. But it doesn’t last. “Could you add some dates, cornflower and organic chicken to the shopping list – when you next come?” he asks. I’m back on the merry-go-round. What is left for me to do? I can’t have a stiff drink. Maybe I should have a bubble bath after all.