Can COVID Anti-Vaxxers Be Reasoned With?

Introduction

I came across some crudely written graffiti recently, spray-painted on a pillar. It read, “ANTI-VAXXERS PIE.” I was like, huh? Another pillar a quarter mile away had the same thing but the vandal’s skill had improved: it read, “ANTI-VAXXERS DIE.” I guess this made a little more sense, but how persuasive was this presumed to be? (This graffito was itself vandalized before I return to photograph it.)

At the other end of the spectrum is an article I read recently in The Atlantic titled “Stop Death Shaming.” I found this article as annoying as the graffiti. In this post I explain my annoyance, and examine the larger question of how we might persuade holdouts to finally get the COVID vaccine.

 Stop Death Shaming

What a stupid title, clearly intended to be shocking so as to attract readers, like clickbait. Of course nobody is “death shaming” because the dead can’t feel shame and nobody is so clueless as to scold a corpse. Meanwhile, the article doesn’t actually provide examples of anybody shaming the non-vaccinated. It does go on to reasonably bemoan the lack of constructive dialogue between those who believe in the COVID vaccine and those who don’t. It also usefully recounts a poll that ranked the top reasons anti-vaxxers list for abstaining:

• Potential side effects (just over half of respondents)
• Don’t trust the vaccines (nearly 40%)
• Don’t trust the government (a third)
• Don’t feel they need it (just under a quarter)
• Aren’t sure the vaccines are protective (22%)
• Don’t see COVID-19 as a major threat (17%)

The author concludes that at least these people show “significant willingness to consider vaccination” (though I can’t figure out how she arrives at this conclusion), and describes a dialogue she had with her uncle about why he and his wife aren’t vaccinated. The uncle asks a few questions, puts his willful ignorance on display, mentions the “little bit of research” he’s done, and concludes, “We’re not, you know—we’re still thinking about it.” The writer wraps up this little vignette by saying, “I felt good about our talk.”

You know what? I don’t feel good about their talk. This guy, and anti-vaxxers like him, have had over six months to ponder this decision. When are they going to get around to their “research”? They’re dithering while people are dying, and this Atlantic writer seems to think that’s fine as long as nobody hurts anyone else’s feelings.

But what really irks me the most about the article is that this journalist misses the biggest point of all: she seems to think it’s perfectly acceptable to only ever expect people to act in their own self-interest. Her uncle, and people like him, are failing to understand or admit that this is a matter of public health. In fact, they are failing to realize that there’s even such a thing as the greater good. In short they are thinking selfishly. This is the real crux of the problem.

Really?

Now wait, you might be thinking. If somebody believes the vaccine works, and gets vaccinated because he or she doesn’t want to get COVID, isn’t that also acting in one’s own self interest? Yes, of course. But this is a situation where one’s self interest happens to coincide with that of the rest of the population. This is what makes it so frustrating when selfish people do the wrong thing to the detriment of themselves and everyone else. It’s a lose-lose.

I suppose you might also question whether selfishness is really the core of our dilemma. Given that all these people are fixating on outlandish fictions such as the risks of side effects, a nefarious government, or the idea that the vaccine is somehow unnecessary, isn’t the real problem that they’re all just as dumb as a sack of hammers?

Okay, now that is not constructive, and I don’t believe it’s even true. According to the New York Times, about thirty percent of the adult U.S. population hasn’t had a shot yet. I don’t think 77 million people actually lack the mental capability to understand that the vaccines do work, that there hasn’t been a rash of side effects, that COVID really is highly contagious, and that you can contract and spread it unknowingly. I think the problem is that people are so scared, as they struggle to adapt to this insanely bizarre new reality, that they’re simply not thinking clearly.

Neuroscience and the vaccine holdouts

Perhaps a shallow dip into the literature of social neuroscience can help illustrate what is going on here. According to this article by Dr. David Rock, a cognitive scientist, “Much of our motivation driving social behavior is governed by an overarching organizing principle of minimizing threat and maximizing reward (Gordon, 2000),” and “several domains of social experience draw upon the same brain networks to maximize reward and minimize threat as the brain networks used for primary survival needs (Lieberman and Eisenberger, 2008).”  When humans feel threatened in a social situation, the “resources available for overall executive functions in the prefrontal cortex decrease.… Due to the overly vigilant amygdala, more tuned to threats than rewards, the threat response is often just below the surface and easily triggered.… This discovery that our brain is inherently attuned to threatening stimuli helps explain many disquieting parts of life,” including “why the media focuses on bad news.”

In evaluating how this plays out in social situations, Dr. Rock focuses on “five domains of human social experience: Status, Certainty, Autonomy, Relatedness and Fairness” (which form the handy acronym SCARF).  Understanding how to approach these realms, he contends, is the key to motivating people, particularly when they’re facing the uncomfortable prospect of significant change: “For example, a perceived threat to one’s status activates similar brain networks to a threat to one’s life. In the same way, a perceived increase in fairness activates the same reward circuitry as receiving a monetary reward.”

So what does this have to do with trying to reason with anti-vaxxers? I would argue that just giving them their say, and being a good listener, as the Atlantic writer does, won’t change anything; nor will directly attacking their stated reasons for declining the vaccine (which are really just positions—you could even say excuses—rather than firm beliefs, not that they’re up for discussion). I think you need to cast the entire matter into a new light, that shocks the anti-vaxxer into a reassessing his or her status, certainty, autonomy, relatedness, and fairness.

How to reframe the conversation

So here’s what I propose, should you find yourself in a position to discuss the COVID vaccine with, say, an uncle willing to hear you out. Instead of denying the risk of side effects, assume that they’re real, and focus on the utter selfishness that the anti-vaxxer displays when letting other people assume this risk. “So let me get this straight, Uncle Clyde,” you could say. “You’re so concerned about side effects, and the possible meddling of our untrustworthy government, that you’re going to stand by and let people like me take that risk so you don’t have to? So you’re basically looking out for number one? So if you were on the Titanic, you’d be elbowing women and children out of the way to get to a lifeboat? And in an active shooter situation, you might avail yourself of a human shield?” This argument would certainly light up the status, relatedness, and fairness realms described in the SCARF model. I wouldn’t expect the dialogue to continue much longer from here, but you’ll have presented Uncle Clyde’s amygdala with a new series of threats, and he might just start to reconsider the clever stories he’s been telling himself about vaccination. At some point he might even knuckle down and enlist the support of his neocortex.

As for your utterly selfish cousin Clint, who maintains that he’s robust and healthy and could totally kick COVID’s ass, you could say, “Oh, I see … and the possibility that your immune system is so good you could be infected but asymptomatic doesn’t concern you, because spreading the virus to Grandma isn’t your problem? So, if you were a smoker, you’d be the kind who totally blows smoke in people’s faces, and if they don’t like it fuck ‘em? I guess this is fine, until Grandma dies of COVID and me and the rest of the family blame all you for the rest of our lives.” This seems like a pretty decent appeal to the Status and Relatedness realms.

Let’s move on to our brother Bill who conveniently sits out the fight against the coronavirus by pretending COVID-19 isn’t a major threat. “So Bill … If this were a war that killed 670,000 Americans instead of a disease, and you were young enough to be a soldier, would you enlist, or just hope that the evil dictator running amok calmed down and called back his troops because he changed his mind? Or would you find some excuse, like flat feet or microscopic testicles, to stay home and hide out instead of facing the enemy?” His sense of relatedness, fairness, and status would have to be reevaluated. Is this shaming? Yes, of course it’s shaming! But it’s not death shaming, it’s selfish asshole shaming. Shaming is required here because these anti-vaxxers are shameless.

Now, when it comes to the poll about why people were declining the vaccine, there was of course the elephant in the room that nobody wanted to admit to: the pressure to follow their political party’s lead. This wasn’t mentioned anywhere in the poll results, but as detailed here, vaccination rates track closely to political party. This is primarily a GOP thing, obviously, though I blame the extreme right wing media more than the politicians. After all, as the Times reports, Mitch McConnell is encouraging Americans to get the vaccine, as is Mitt Romney, and even Donald Trump says he’s a “big believer.” The anti-vaccine mania is largely the fault of heartless, soulless, utterly self-serving media shitheads like Tucker Carlson and Sean Hannity who understand that keeping their acolytes’ amygdalae in a state of perpetual frenzy is instrumental in creating the seething, hyperbolic division among Americans that keeps ratings high. I think it’s very telling in this interview that twice Trump brings up the vaccine, and twice Hannity completely changes the subject.

Vaccination behavior shaped by political party can also slop over into the Democrat camp. This article in the San Francisco Chronicle, discussing various reasons locals gave for avoiding the vaccine, describes one person’s viewpoint: “It was bad enough that she felt nervous about the vaccine’s side effects. But it also felt like former President Donald Trump was mixed up in it all. ‘Trump said, “The vaccine is here because of me.” And I was like, do I really want it if he’s behind it?’ Maggin said. ‘But people feel that people who don’t get vaccinated are Trump supporters!’” The article goes on to ask, “What’s a frightened liberal to do?” I’ll tell you want to do: stop worrying about political parties, stop being bullied by biased blowhards, and think for your damn self! That could do wonders for your sense of autonomy.

I’m almost done, but I want to take a little more time to consider fairness, the F in the SCARF model. I think people often do make fairness a priority; as Dr. Rock points out, it “may be part of the explanation as to why people experience internal rewards for doing volunteer work to improve their community; it is a sense of decreasing the unfairness in the world.” Consider how many people, surely yourself included, blithely exceed the speed limit, but how few would illegally park in a handicapped spot. Freeway accidents are one of the leading causes of accidental death in America, but that risk is abstracted so most of us don’t think much about it. But we can easily imagine a person in a wheelchair being inconvenienced because we wrongly took her spot. What would be more embarrassing to you: being pulled over for speeding, or getting caught parking in a handicapped spot?

So to appeal to the anti-vaxxer’s built-in sense of fairness, it would be useful to stimulate his imagination a little. “So, Uncle Bruce,” you might say, “is this pandemic inconvenient for you? Kind of a pain?” You could draw him out on the indignities of endless Zoom calls, etc. Invite him to share a story about the most awful thing that’s ever happened to him at work. Then say, “Hey Uncle Bruce, do you ever chew out flight attendants when your flight is delayed?” He’d say of course not. Ask if he’s ever stiffed a waiter on his tip. “Hell no!” Uncle Bruce would declare. You then reply, “Of course not, you wouldn’t deliberately cause trouble for a working person, you always show them respect.” Then you go on to say, “You might be aware that ICUs at hospitals across the country are filling up with COVID patients. Did you know many of them are straining under the burden of two to three times the normal number of patients? Did you know almost all of these patients need to be intubated? Do you have a sense of how gnarly a procedure that is? Do you know how hard it is to bring a patient back from that? Did you know doctors are having more patients die than at any other time in their careers, and that many ICU docs have now treated more patients for COVID than for any other malady? Can you imagine how hard it is for them to tell the family members of their patient that he isn’t going to make it? Look, I know you didn’t sign up for boring Zoom calls when you took the job with TechCorp, but these doctors didn’t sign up for  a brutal, endless onslaught of their ICUs being inundated with mostly doomed patients either. I’m sure you’ve read how unvaccinated people like yourself are 29 times more likely to be hospitalized with COVID … I just want to make sure you can kind of imagine how that pans out. Oh, don’t worry, these doctors would never shame anyone, though I talked to one who said he actually wished the fact of his patients’ non-vaccinated condition wasn’t in their charts because that just reminds him how huge a problem this is, and rubs it in how utterly avoidable all this would be if people just accepted the vaccine. And don’t get me wrong, when talking to the non-vaccinated family member of a terminal patient, a doctor would never say anything like, ‘This non-vaccination policy you have … how would you say that’s working out for your family?’ They have much more tact than that, they’re unfailingly polite despite being overworked and losing so many patients. And if you yourself did land in the ICU with COVID, and your doctor was telling me there’s not much more he can do, and I was begging him to do everything he can, he would never say anything like, ‘Would you say your Uncle Bruce did everything he could?’ Because doctors aren’t about shaming anybody. And I’m not either, believe me, I’m not trying to be a dick or anything, and I know you’re afraid of needles. But did you know that when an intubation goes sideways, a mixture of blood and saliva from the COVID patient’s throat can spray all over the doctor? I’m just sayin’. But hey, take your time deciding, it’s all good. It’s totally your choice, a deeply personal matter. And don’t worry, if you do end up dying of COVID, all of us family members who survive because we’re vaccinated will be very gracious at your funeral. Nobody will say, ‘It’s sure a shame about Uncle Bruce, though this could have been avoided if he hadn’t been such a selfish, stubborn old dumbass.’ We would never say that because that would be death shaming.”

More reading on the pandemic

• Shelter-in-Place FAQ
• E-Book Options During COVID-19 Lockdown
• Is Cycling Safe During the COVID-19 Pandemic?
• The Toilet Paper Hoarding Conundrum
• More COVID Chronicles – Baking in Place
• When Will the Pandemic End?
• What Are Hospitals Like During the Pandemic?
• How to Talk to Your Cat About COVID-19
• Teleworking During the COVID-19 Pandemic
• Why Don’t The Dutch Wear COVID Masks?
• Travel Tips During the COVID-19 Pandemic
• COVID Wristbands

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Email me here. For a complete index of albertnet posts, click here.

COVID wristbands

Introduction

I’ve had my first COVID vaccination shot, and more and more of my friends and family are getting theirs. It feels like there’s finally an end in sight. It’s so tempting to give in to this or that temptation, such as to finally ditch the mask. Of course I won’t yet, for two reasons. One, with variants etc. it’s still possible for a vaccinated person to spread the coronavirus. Two, from a social perspective I don’t want to scare anyone. That’s what this post is about: signaling to others when we’re no longer a threat. Is there a simple way of doing this?

Mask as token

A face mask prevents the spread of two things: airborne virus-laden droplets, and fear. Much of the time, this second thing is arguably more important. When I go for a walk (whether on a trail in a regional park or just in my neighborhood) and encounter another person, it’s almost comical how much evasive action we both take. If our masks aren’t already on we swiftly apply them in a practiced motion, and then we greatly alter our course so as to put at least ten feet between us, even when it means going out into the middle of the street. Most of the time this is unnecessary. It’s just a social gesture that says, “I respect your right to not get COVID.”

The fact is, three conditions must exist for the virus to spread: close proximity, lack of good air flow, and prolonged exposure. If you’re indoors, maskless, and talking loudly in someone’s face for several minutes or more, sure—that’s dangerous. A five-second encounter on a fire trail isn’t. Nevertheless, I always pull up my mask because not everybody understands this, or believes it, or feels comfortable tempting fate. It’s easy enough to wear a mask and I’m happy to do it.

Still, I get dirty looks. Sometimes I’m a little slow pulling my mask over my face, or somebody appears to resent my practice of only having my mask in place when I encounter others. (These are the folks who wear a mask while driving alone with their car windows rolled up.) One time I was at home and stepped across the sidewalk, unmasked, to get something out of my car and encountered somebody whose stroll brought her unexpectedly into my death zone. She scolded me, “You should always wear a mask when you go to your car because a person might be coming!” I replied, “Oh my god, thank you so much for pointing that out. I never would have put that together.” She smiled smugly and continued on (either oblivious to my deadpan sarcasm, or even deader-pan than I).

Why are safety-minded people so prickly? It’s because as babies they were given all the routine vaccinations against polio, diphtheria, tetanus, etc. and they’re all autistic.

Note: that was a joke, and if you got all excited because you’re an anti-vaxxer, you’re a joke and should go somewhere else for your “news.”

So once I’m fully vaccinated, will I still wear a mask and give everyone a comically wide berth? Sure. After all, that’s preferable to irking people wherever I go. But wouldn’t it be nice if people could be that much more relaxed around me because they could tell, somehow, that in addition to my mask I have all the antibodies I need to keep the virus from turning me into a highly infectious disease-spreading machine?

How about I’ve-been-vaccinated wristbands?

So I got to thinking: what about a rubber (well, silicone) wristband, like those yellow Livestrong bands from the early aughts? A color-colored wristband worn by those lucky folks who have had the COVID vaccine could suddenly become all the rage, and overnight would come a universal symbol for greatly reduced contagiousness. Next time somebody gave me stink-eye for being a little slow on the mask-draw, I could flash my wristband on they ass, and then they’d be like, “No worries, my bad!”

Once I had this idea, I figured I’d write a blog post about it which would immediately go viral, and we’d be well on our way to wristbands being standard for everyone who gets the vaccine. Five seconds later I realized that if I’ve had this idea, of course countless others have as well. Sure enough, a cursory Google search turned up countless heartwarming stories about how “two Seattle techies,” a “Carpenteria man,” an “RIT alum,” a “government contractor,” and a “father and son” came up with this ingenious idea to promote vaccination while reducing social anxiety through been-vaxxed wristbands. All these news stories seem to have been written in a vacuum, taking it on faith that nobody else had thought of this simple social signaling mechanism.

Do these wristbands work?

I don’t know about you, but I’ve never actually seen anyone rocking the I’ve-been-vaccinated wristband. For now, it looks like a movement that’s just spinning its wheels. So what’s missing? Well, think about this: why didn’t the Livestrong wristbands come in a variety of colors? It’s because they had to be instantly recognizable in order to convey the message “I support Lance Armstrong’s amazing cancer foundation.”

You can chuckle and roll your eyes all you want now, but the Livestrong Foundation sold 80 million of those wristbands before Lance got popped. They were all the rage and the various knock-offs, like the grey “APATHY” wristband I somehow acquired, never saw significant sales.

I don’t think the current COVID wristbands will ever be adopted because they’re not distinctive enough to mean anything. It’s like if a wedding ring could be made of any material or worn on any finger … how would we know what’s merely decorative vs. declarative?

On top of this, the current crop of COVID vaccination wristbands are pretty ugly and/or cheesy. Let’s look at a few. Here’s a pretty revolting color:

Compared to this awful green, the maillot jaune color of the Livestrong wristbands was like the new black. Now look with these orange-white numbers:

They remind me of Creamsicles. Yuck. Here’s an even grosser color, with an embarrassing label, “I AM A COVID WARRIOR,” into the bargain:

This plain white one is just poorly executed, like the bottom-of-the-barrel swag from a trade show (remember those?):

This one is particularly ugly in color, and “GOT THE SHOT” with the silly coronavirus-shaped Os is just unforgivably tacky:

Now, this fancy bracelet version is particularly problematic: it can’t be read without glasses or myopia; wouldn’t be popular among dudes; and could cause skin problems for those who require 14-karat gold jewelry.

The father/son team wristband, stating “Vaccinated and Proud,” looks like the cheesy toy from a Cracker Jack or cereal box, and is not only unwisely political but kind of arrogant. Proud that you were lucky enough to get a vaccination appointment? Proud of believing in science? Proud of braving that scary needle? Give me a break. Meanwhile, who could read the text from over six feet away … Superman?

On top of these aesthetic concerns, I’m not about to fork out real money for a cheap rubber wristband. Prices look to be in the $1.30 to $5.00 range (or $34 for the bracelet) and you often have to buy a 5-or 10-pack. This seems like a ripoff, particularly if these wristbands don’t become ubiquitous among the vaccinated, so I just look like a random solo douchebag wearing one.

My analysis of the problem here? This is one of those times when the private sector just isn’t up to the job. It’s time for the government to step in.

Hey CDC – you make the wristbands!

The solution is obvious. The CDC needs to develop a totally standardized rubber wristband, embossed with a non-embarrassing label like “C19 VACCINATED.” They should manufacture them by the millions, and ship them to vaccine distributors to give away to everyone who receives a shot. It wouldn’t be an indicator of anyone’s personal style or fashion, but more like a government-issued ID of sorts so it’d simply be a matter of public health to wear one. The color should be something muted but also completely distinctive. I propose Celeste #227, the strange milky blue-green created by Bianchi, the Italian bicycle company. Here’s a swatch:

Understated, distinctive, and utilitarian … so much easier to adopt than the current tacky hodgepodge. Get some major celebrities to sport them, and you’d have a nationwide phenomenon in no time.

So if anyone reading this is close personal buds with Dr. Fauci, or if you’re some kind of big shot Internet influencer, please get this going. My second shot is only a week away…

More reading on the pandemic

• Shelter-in-Place FAQ
• E-Book Options During COVID-19 Lockdown
• Is Cycling Safe During the COVID-19 Pandemic?
• The Toilet Paper Hoarding Conundrum
• More COVID Chronicles – Baking in Place
• When Will the Pandemic End?
• What Are Hospitals Like During the Pandemic?
• How to Talk to Your Cat About COVID-19
• Teleworking During the COVID-19 Pandemic
• Why Don’t The Dutch Wear COVID Masks?
• Travel Tips During the COVID-19 Pandemic

—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—
Email me here. For a complete index of albertnet posts, click here.

When Will the COVID-19 Pandemic End?

Introduction

Right off the bat, I’ll say that this post won’t answer the question posed in the title—it will merely examine one methodology for addressing the question. And, obviously, I’m not an epidemiologist or any kind of expert. That said, I’ve found a way to look at the pandemic that has given me some measure of relative peace vs. just freaking out.

By the way, for once I’m not going to try to make this a funny post. If anybody finds humor here it’ll be months or years from now when the puny perspective and inevitable inaccuracy of my model and approach will be glaringly, laughably obvious in retrospect.

Who needs a model?

For me, one of the most stressful aspects about this situation is that not only do we not know how it’ll end, but we have no idea when. At least with a final exam coming up or a term paper due, we know when our stress will be over. For better or for worse, that final will be done at 4:00 p.m. on Wednesday, May 27. Whatever kind of shape that essay will be in on Friday, it’ll have been turned in and that’s that. As badly as we’re suffering on a long climb during a bike race, we know there is a summit, and at what mileage or altitude we’ll reach it, even if we haven’t raced the course before. With this pandemic, though, nobody knows where the finish line is. Could this go on for years? It could … the world has seen that before. Not knowing adds to the emotional strain.

Isn’t it enough to follow the news? Well, that hasn’t really helped me. Not only is too much news just depressing, but there’s just not enough consensus to be useful. The media points out what is salient, and discord usually is. Meanwhile, much of what we read is speculation about what could happen (the “news” being that somebody said it), without much effort to say which scenario is the most likely. News is divergent, not convergent.

My solution is to create a mathematical model to forecast the arc of this pandemic. Though this model is extremely crude, it has the ability to improve over time, and at least it’s based on numbers. It gives me some peace, so I figure it might help you, too … but only if we are in basic agreement about what will end the pandemic.

The end of COVID-19: two scenarios

If we could plumb the collective consciousness of the people, across the entire spectrum of humanity, we’d come across all kinds of notions as to how this situation will be resolved. There would be the vague hope that somehow it’d just end, like it would just go away, the way mad cow, SARS, and Ebola seemed to. We’d also find various flavors of denial that this virus actually exists at all, and/or that it’s actually worse than the flu. But if we’re going to try to be reasonable about this, I think we should limit the possible resolutions to two scenarios: 1) enough people are infected that virus can’t find any new hosts (i.e., we reach herd immunity), or 2) a vaccine is developed. Now, if you disagree that the resolution will probably take one of these two forms, that’s totally fine … but you might as well stop reading here. I don’t want to waste your time.

I think it’s possible that a vaccine will come to the rescue. I don’t think anybody is ruling this out, and obviously loads of people are working on that vaccine, and this work simply has to happen because future waves of this coronavirus, or the next one, are probably inevitable. All this being said, I have two problems with hanging my short-term sanity on the prospect of a vaccine.

First, the existence of an effective vaccine doesn’t equate to a swift and efficient means of rolling it out in this country. Vaccinating people isn’t as easy as rolling out a new software version to phones or computers. America is really good at making money, but not very good at making good healthcare available to our entire population. If our performance thus far during this pandemic is any indicator, the time between somebody in this world developing a good vaccine and Americans actually getting it could be very long.

Second, creating a vaccine takes as long as it takes … we can’t just slap a launch date on it. Any time lots of people collaborate on something complicated, delays are inevitable. I have worked in tech for almost 25 years and have seen more deadlines missed than achieved. The only engineering deadline that had any teeth was Y2K, and the entire industry breathed a huge sigh of relief that we fixed our networks in time for that. But Y2K was a lot simpler than a vaccine … it was just cleaning up sloppy software.

The conventional wisdom around the rough timeframe for a vaccine, to the barebones extent I’ve investigated it, is at least a year. WebMD, for example, says it’s 12-18 months out. I suspect herd immunity will come before then, because that’s what my model predicts. If it seems reasonable to you that herd immunity could be achieved before a vaccine, read on.

My pandemic prediction model

I’ve hunted around a bit to see what the generally accepted rate of infection is for achieving herd immunity—that is, the point when the virus can no longer spread due to lack of available hosts. The number I’ve settled on is 70%. (It’s not that important that you agree with this figure because it’s easy enough, with the spreadsheet, to swap it out for something else, which I may do if suddenly all the experts are saying we need 75%, or only 65%.) Multiplying 70% by US population, I come up with 230 million who need to be infected before the virus stops spreading. If we reach that number before 12-18 months, that’ll be the end of COVID-19 in this country (assuming we have some combination of worldwide herd immunity and international travel restrictions).

To figure out to long it’ll take to reach this level, we have to calculate what the current rate of infection is. I’ve been watching the daily stats on Infection 2020, a website my daughter alerted me to. It compiles data from a number of sources: the website cites “CDC, WHO, The New York Times, JHU, Corona Data Scraper, and official state and county health agencies.” Every day, it posts the rate of increase vs. the day before.

Is this website perfect? Of course not. One of the most maddening aspects of this situation is that we can only really guess about how many people have actually been infected with this coronavirus, given the abysmal state of our testing capability so far. I have no doubt that hundreds of thousands of infections, perhaps a majority, have not been documented. But I think it’s still worth using this data, because it will get more accurate over time, and I think you have to start somewhere … otherwise you can’t model anything and your take on the situation will get yanked in too many directions.

When I created my model a little over a week ago, I’d been watching these stats for a couple of months, during which period I’d seen the rate of growth fluctuate between 1 and 4%. It was mostly around 4% at first, and then gradually dropped. Lately it’s been 2% or 1%. The problem is, the growth rate figure is not very precise—it’s only one significant digit—so it flip-flops between 1% and 2% based on the time of day when I check. That’s all the difference in the world.

To get past this imprecision, I created a spreadsheet that models three different growth rates: 2%, 1.5%, and 1%. I started with the actual values as reported by the website on May 16, and copied the formula [previous value * 1.02] down far enough to where the total cases reaches (roughly) 230 million. Here is what the 2% growth forecast looks like (with a ton of rows omitted so the snapshot is manageable):

What the above shows is that if the infection rate proceeds at 2% day-over-day growth, we’ll reach the necessary 70% infection rate by the end of January, next year. Now, of course the infection rate won’t be constant like that … it is bound to go up as we relax the shelter-in-place rules. Or maybe it won’t … many seem to think it’ll flatten out, and for the last couple of months it has. But at least this is a starting point, and it’s easy enough to tweak the model and the situation changes.

Here is the next tab of my spreadsheet, based on a forecast of 1% day-over-day growth in the infection rate:

It has this pandemic lasting until October 5 of 2021 unless a vaccine comes out before then. Is that realistic? Perhaps not, but no matter: I also did a 1.5% model:

The 1.5% model has us reaching herd immunity toward the end of next April.

Now, all three models project a 6% fatality rate, because that number hasn’t changed in months. You may be wondering if I truly believe this pandemic will kill almost 14 million Americans. No, of course I don’t. Keeping in mind that most of the cases we know about are people showing bad enough symptoms to get tested, they’re probably the more vulnerable populations. As more and more people get the virus, we’ll be into the more mainstream cohort: younger and healthier. Meanwhile, as mentioned before, surely countless people have had this virus, or have it now, without being tested. The fatality rate is deaths divided by known cases; as the number of known cases grows, outpacing the deaths, the known fatality rate will fall dramatically.

So which of these three models is most accurate at the moment? That’s easy to measure simply by filling in the actual numbers as we go. I added formulas to subtract the actual values from the forecasted values, day by day, across each model, so we can see which one proves most accurate. Here’s what the 2% model shows so far:

Clearly, the forecast is pretty far off and getting worse. In other words, 2% is too aggressive an assumption, thus January 26 is too early a date to expect herd immunity to be reached.

Let’s look, then, at the 1% model:

It’s also pretty far off, though a bit better than the 2% model. (Not long ago, it was farther off than the 2% model, so we can tell the rate of infection is declining.) The numbers are in red because they’re negative, meaning the model is too optimistic and is predicting fewer cases and deaths than we’re seeing. But they’re smaller numbers, indicating greater accuracy.

Here is the 1.5% forecast:

It’s a fair bit closer than either of the other two models, which isn’t surprising since the reported rate has been bouncing between 1% and 2%  due to the rounding the website does. For that to happen, the actual rate would have to be somewhere in the middle.

Does this mean I should discard the 1% and 2% models? No, because the rate could swing in either direction from here. Over the next weeks and months as events unfold, I’ll probably add more tabs modeling other rates of infection if they do a better job. This gives us a way to contextualize the numbers we see each day. At some point if things are departing sufficiently from what we’ve observed since May 16, I might start over, basing the forecast on the number of cases as of that date (i.e., instead of the 1.48 million we had on May 16).

Over time, the model will change constantly, reflecting more and more new data and the effect that government policies and human behavior have on the spread of infection. If it turns out that fear, and not regulation, is driving social distancing behaviors, the rate might not go up by much. On the other hand, if people revolt and businesses start opening up again willy-nilly, the rate could skyrocket. These things cannot be predicted but their effect can be fed into the forecast.

So what I’ve created here is a model that says today, based on what is now known and what’s going on at this moment, I have a tentative herd immunity forecast date. As of May 24, I have at least some basis to believe that this pandemic will be over by April 20 of next year, after which the long, slow return to normal can begin. Notwithstanding the crudeness of my model, it gives me comfort just to have this projected date, vs. speculating endlessly about what could happen.

If this end date idea appeals to you too, I’m happy to share my spreadsheet … just drop me an email. Or, if you’re a lot better at such modeling than I am, I’d love to hear your comments and/or see your forecast. Or, if I have missed some all-important consideration and you’re able to shoot holes in my entire framework here, such that I discard it completely, I’d rather do that than stumble forward ignorantly, deceiving myself. (Will this post have been a totally wasted effort in that case? Mostly, yeah … but it’ll also be, arguably, an interesting historical testament to the kind of agonized cogitation this pandemic has brought about.)

More reading on the pandemic

• Shelter-in-Place FAQ
• E-Book Options During COVID-19 Lockdown
• Is Cycling Safe During the COVID-19 Pandemic?
• The Toilet Paper Hoarding Conundrum
• More COVID Chronicles – Baking in Place
• What Are Hospitals Like During the Pandemic?
• How to Talk to Your Cat About COVID-19
• Teleworking During the COVID-19 Pandemic
• Why Don’t The Dutch Wear COVID Masks?
• Travel Tips During the COVID-19 Pandemic
• COVID Wristbands

—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—~—

For a complete index of albertnet posts, click here.

Fiction - Revised Blood Donor Screening Questions

NOTE:  This post is Rated R for pervasive mature themes and mild strong language.

Introduction

This post is a work of fiction.  Certain brief passages are taken from an actual questionnaire given to blood donors, simply to provide context, but the rest are as absolutely fictional as you can get.  By the way, I highly encourage being a blood donor, and if you feel the need to connect the dots between this work of pure fiction and the act of donating blood, simply consider this a wacko commentary on the pre-donation questionnaires, which are arguably longer than is necessary.  Above all, don’t take this too seriously (i.e., don’t take it seriously at all).

BLOOD DONOR HISTORY QUESTIONNAIRE

Before you begin

Please read the this questionnaire carefully and do not just answer “no” to every question, even if nothing has changed since the last time you donated blood (and yes, we acknowledge that it is not possible that you lived for six months in the United Kingdom since you last donated three months ago).  Answer the questions carefully because we have made significant changes to this form.  For one thing, we have finally customized this version for male donors, acknowledging that questions regarding pregnancy and menstruation do not apply to you.  We have also added new questions as part of our ongoing effort to screen donors as thoroughly as possible, for the safety of blood transfusion recipients.

Are you… 

• Feeling healthy and well today?    Yes□    No□
• Currently taking an antibiotic?    Yes□    No□
• Currently high on anything that you injected?    Yes□    No□
• Currently a patient in a hospital who refuses to take your situation seriously, grins like Jack Nicholson, tried to grope the nurse earlier, and have sneaked out of your room to come here and donate blood?   Yes□    No□ 

In the past 48 hours… 

• Have you taken aspirin or anything that has aspirin in it?   Yes□    No□
• Have you even taken one of those “baby aspirins” that are so small you might be tempted not to count them?   Yes□    No□
• Have you suffered a hangover so bad you honestly can’t remember if you took any aspirin or not?   Yes□    No□
• Have you observed the “five-second rule” as regards food dropped on the kitchen floor?    Yes□    No□

 In the past month… 

• Have you donated platelets or plasma?   Yes□    No□
• Have you received 20 or more phone calls thanking you for your recent donation and asking if you will come donate again, perhaps on Monday?   Yes□    No□
• Had any vaccinations or other shots?   Yes□    No□
• Had any contact with someone who had a smallpox vaccination, even over Skype?   Yes□    No□
• Had any contact with one of those lunatic parents who refuse to vaccinate their kids, considering vaccination a matter of personal freedom rather than of public health, and who should be sent to a third world country to witness an outbreak of a horrible disease that used to be totally eradicated in the first world?   Yes□    No□
• Smoked a cigarette?   Yes□    No□
• Smoked a whole lot of cigarettes, and are donating blood because you are rightly convinced that one day you will be undergoing chemotherapy for your lung cancer, so instead of the altruistic good deed we thought this was, you cynically consider it a quasi-karmic quid pro quo, you Machiavellian bastard?   Yes□    No□

In the past 12 months have you… 

• Had a blood transfusion?   Yes□    No□
• Had a blood transfusion at a county hospital, in which case we feel so, so sorry for you?   Yes□    No□
• Had a blood transfusion from a WorldTour pro cycling team staffer such as a soigneur, masseuse, physical therapist, or “doctor”?   Yes□    No□
• Had an accidental (or, what the hell, an intentional) needle-stick?   Yes□    No□
• Had an ear or body piercing?   Yes□    No□ 
• Had a tattoo, even the pretend kind like kids get at summer camp or for Trick-Or-Treat?   Yes□    No□
• Had sexual contact with anyone who is HIV-positive?   Yes□    No□
• Had sexual contact with a prostitute or anybody else who takes money or drugs or other payment for sex?   Yes□    No□
• Had sexual contact with anyone who has ever used needles to take drugs or steroids or anything not prescribed by their doctor?   Yes□    No□
• Had sexual contact with a UCI WorldTour professional cyclist?   Yes□    No□
• Had sexual contact with any cyclist who has placed in the top 20 in a UCI WorldTour sanctioned bicycle race?   Yes□    No□
• Had sexual contact with anybody whose blood has been analyzed by the Châtenay-Malabry laboratory?   Yes□    No□
• Had sexual contact with another male, even once?   Yes□    No□
• Had a wife or girlfriend with an ear or body piercing?   Yes□    No□
• Had sexual contact with this wife or girlfriend, even once?   Yes□    No□

From 1980 through 1996… 

• Did you spend time that adds up to 3 months or more in the United Kingdom?   Yes□    No□
• Were you a member of the U.S. military, a civilian military employee, an ROTC dropout, a dependent of the U.S. military, or in a co-dependent relationship with an ROTC dropout?   Yes□    No□
• Did you allow a citizen or national from the UK to sleep on your couch while he or she was visiting the United States to attend a music festival or Burning Man?   Yes□    No□
• Did you eat any beef product that spent time that adds up to 20 minutes or more in the UK or in UK airspace?   Yes□    No□
• Did you eat in a steakhouse in the UK, even a high-end steakhouse in Bath where the waitress assured you all their beef was from Spain?   Yes□    No□
• Were you a member of a British cycling team?   Yes□    No□
• Did you ever have a bicycle race bib number pinned to your jersey by a British cycling team masseuse, soigneur, director, or other staffer?   Yes□    No□
• If “yes” to previous question, were you wearing the jersey at the time?   Yes□    No□
• Did you spend time that adds up to 3 months or more self-identifying as an Anglophile and using words like “peckish,” “brilliant,” “poxy,” “nosh,” and “dosh”?   Yes□    No□

Have you EVER… 

• Had a positive test for HIV?   Yes□    No□
• Used needles to take drugs, steroids, or anything not prescribed by your doctor?   Yes□    No□
• Used needles to receive blood transfusions or take drugs, steroids, or anything that was prescribed by your UCI WorldTour team doctor or his overworked, undertrained lackey?   Yes□    No□
• Infused blood that you stored in a mini-fridge that (unbeknownst to you) your girlfriend often unplugged at night because the buzzing kept her awake?   Yes□    No□
• Suffered scrapes or abrasions (aka “road rash”) after crashing a bicycle on a roadway used by a UCI WorldTour bicycle race?   Yes□    No□
• Had hepatitis, malaria, Chagas’ disease, cancer, blood disease, or babesiosis (which is an actual disease, not a cute name for the crushing fatigue that comes from being a first-time parent)?   Yes□    No□
• Had sexual contact with anyone who was born or lived in Africa?   Yes□    No□
• Seen “Out of Africa” with Robert Redford and Meryl Streep?   Yes□    No□
• Seen “Top Gun,” with Tom Cruise and Val Kilmer, in the presence of other males, who all agreed it was a great movie with ruggedly handsome characters who were “bigger than life”?   Yes□    No□
• Had sexual contact with one of those punk rocker chicks who claims not to shoot up but does all kinda crazy shit and probably wouldn’t even remember if she did?   Yes□    No□
• Fantasized during intercourse about the punk rocker chick you know in high school who maybe didn’t do as much crazy shit as everybody said but definitely had body piercings?   Yes□    No□
• Fantasized during intercourse about being, or being with, a UCI WorldTour cyclist, team masseuse, soigneur, director, or other staffer?   Yes□    No□
• Fantasized during intercourse about eating steak tartare at that high-end steakhouse in Bath between 1980 and 1996?   Yes□    No□

I Don’t Smell a Rat

Introduction

What is this expression “I smell a rat”? It’s weak on two levels. In the strictly olfactory sense, it makes no sense: I’ve never smelled a rat, even when in close proximity to one. (“I smell a skunk” makes perfect sense, but not rat.) Two, in the figurative sense, why does a rat connote something unsavory? Why is it, when someone commits a treacherous act, we call him a rat? I can find no zoological basis for this. Why not pick on the cuckoo? It parasitically lays its eggs in another bird’s nest, and then the cuckoo chick, soon after hatching, pushes the host’s eggs out of the nest. Now that’s treachery.

I’ve been thinking about rats lately because I have one. Not a pet, but an interloper, hanging out in my backyard eating seeds and/or their shells which fall from the bird feeder. I am deeply conflicted about what I should do, if anything, about this rat, and how I ought to feel about it. This post explores those feelings in an effort to make you (and me) laugh, think, and feel uncomfortable.

Why we hate rats

If you look closely at a rat, you’ll see that—wait, probably you won’t see much because you’ll have this automatic gross-out response and won’t really look that carefully. But if you look closely at a photo of a rat, or at a rat that’s securely confined, you may conclude that it’s almost cute. It’s just that long, thick tail that is so unpleasant. On top of this we equate rats with the bubonic plague. (Rat lovers point out that the disease wasn’t the fault of the rats, exactly, but of the fleas that bit them; I’m reminded of the NRA slogan, “Guns don’t kill people—people do,” and Eddie Izzard’s rejoinder, “Yeah, but I think the gun helps, you know?”)

I’ve done a cursory Google search on why people hate rats, and the only unexpected thing I turned up was this conspiracy theory: the scientific community teaches us to hate rats so we won’t mind when cruel experiments are done on them. I’m not sure I buy this; I don’t think that the Animal Testing Industrial Complex has influenced me much at all. I’m aware that a) this research saves human lives, and b) lab rats really are cute. So, it’s a toss-up whether or not it’s okay with me. Given world enough and time, I might think harder about the ethical implications, but I instead I just lump animal testing into the same category as “ugly, hairy people having sex.” That is, I’m aware that it goes on, but it’s not happening right in front of me, and I don’t have anything to do with it, so I’m fine shoving the fact of it into a dark corner of my brain and forgetting about it.

Lots of amateur Internet pundits decry the poor treatment rats have in movies, TV, and other media, and I think that’s a fair criticism. Even E.B. White’s Charlotte’s Web, while making the death of a pig and even a spider seem unthinkably tragic, reinforces the image of a rat as gross, greedy, and opportunistic. There are limits to how persuasive such media are, though, because I really do think the typical human response to a rat is more visceral than rational. We’re not taught to hate rats … it’s instinctive.

Being a homeowner, of course, gives me particular sensitivities. As a renter I thought earthquakes were kind of fun; now I find them horrifying. Similarly, when I see a rat in my backyard, I’m not just responding to the rat itself. I’m responding to the idea of an infestation—after all, rats breed like, well, rats. Whereas one rat might be aesthetically tolerable, a dozen or two would bring on abject terror, like something out of Hitchcock.

People keep rats as pets, and I’ll bet I could find somebody’s pet rat cute. Rats are known to groom themselves, just like cats. But the big difference, I think, is domestic versus feral. A rat in your backyard is not the equivalent of the neighbor kid; it’s the equivalent of a finding a filthy homeless dude sprawling in your deck chair.

Is it okay to kill rats?

I’d be lying if I said it never crossed my mind to knock off this rat.  The first time I saw it, I threw a shoe at it.  There was no moral dilemma here, because I knew full well I had no chance of actually hitting it—my arm isn’t that good.  I just hoped to scare it off.  Well, it scurried out of the way, but didn’t even leave the yard.  I fetched the shoe and tried again, and this time it left, but only for awhile.  This technique may work on housecats, but only because they have very little to gain from being in your yard.  A rat is of course totally unfazed, which is just one more reason we don’t like them.  We humans are accustomed to striking terror into the hearts of lesser beasts, and when we don’t, it’s natural to feel offended.

I’m disinclined to make sweeping moral statements about man’s right to kill animals, because I eat meat and wear leather shoes.  (Though a vegan can claim higher ground, he may be a bit of a hypocrite if he puts flea medicine on his cat, allows countless insects to splat on his windshield, or subsists on an agriculture that surely disrupts habitats, displacing all manner of wildlife.)  Obviously I have no problem with killing animals, but I also don’t believe it’s okay to be cruel.  (This means, of course, that I have to eat organic eggs,  organic chicken, and grass-fed beef.  The package of some beef I bought recently said not only that it was organic, local, and grass-fed, but that the cows were encouraged to socialize.  Hell, I was never encouraged to socialize.  Those cows may have had a better life than I have!)

I have killed one rodent in my life.  This was back in the ‘90s.  I was sharing a tiny apartment in San Francisco with my wife.  Upon discovering a mouse, she jumped up on a chair, shrieking and flapping her arms.  After I recovered from my laughing fit, I went to the hardware store and bought a trap.  I think it was marketed as a non-cruel trap, as it had no spring.  But it worked by trapping the mouse’s feet in goo.  This ended up being cruel because the mouse would have worked itself to death trying to escape.  Its piteous squeaking got to me, and I put it out of its misery via swift, blunt force.

Cruelty, ethics, and affectation

I took a trip to Boulder, my hometown, recently and while I was there I fell into conversation with a very interesting blue-collar guy.  (I’ll call him G—.)  G— has a friend who runs a coffee shop.  This friend (I’ll call her F—) is dog-friendly—she even has a water dish on the premises for dogs—but she freaked out when a rat showed up.  So she poisoned it.  Per the directions on the poison, she removed the doggie dish, because if a poisoned rat can find water, it’ll drink enough to dilute the poison and will live.  This rat staggered out into an alley, where some college kids found it. 

For the sake of the story, let’s assume—because it’s how this was described to me—that these were silly trust fund kids taking a break from their drum circle.  They gathered around trying to rescue the rat, but weren’t sure what to do, other than blow the smoke from their medicinal marijuana in its face.  (Okay, I made that part up.)  F— was afraid they’d bring the rat into her shop and ask for water, which would put her in an awkward position.  So she called G—.  He showed up and wasn’t sure what to do either.  Fortunately for him, the rat soon entered its death throes, at which point G— went into the shop and fetched a broom and dustpan.  When he returned to the alley the rat was dead, and the trustafarians were standing over it looking grief-stricken.  G— asked, “Are you guys done with that rat?” and then, getting no response, swept it into the dustpan and chucked it in the dumpster.  Whether or not G— was callous enough to poison a rat himself, he evidently couldn’t resist the temptation to tweak the do-gooders.

It’s the kind of story I laughed hard at, but then felt sheepish about enjoying so much. After all, the concerned citizens were just trying to be good, just like I do. But they were getting all worked up about an individual member of the species, whereas it’s not at all clear they care much about rodent welfare in general. They have to know that in countless urban environments rats are killed by spring traps and poisoned as a matter of course. How much of their concern in this case was ideological, vs. a cozy, brief indulgence in a warm bath of virtue and magnanimity?

I try to be good, but I also try not to be sanctimonious.  For example, I quietly forego pâté de foie gras, because I’ve heard horror stories of how its producers force-feed geese to enlarge their livers—but I acknowledge inwardly that, pâté being expensive and not that tasty anyway, it’s an easy enough thing to boycott.  And I haven’t joined any campaign against pâté, because a) I’m a busy guy and can’t chase down every societal ill I come across, and b) given the widespread knowledge of the hellish conditions facing factory-farmed cows, pigs, and chickens—which everybody eats—doesn’t it seem odd that there’s such an outcry against a food so expensive that practically nobody eats it?

Rationalizing rat-icide

Getting back to whether or not to kill this rat:  if I decided to let it be, might I not feel pretty stupid if it bit one of my kids and gave her a terrible disease?  Perhaps.  But before using my kids as an excuse to rid my home of vermin, I should really do some research.  After all, many a Marin County parent would look pretty stupid applying such rationale, because so many of them are creating a much larger risk by refusing to vaccinate their kids against terrible diseases that—far more recently than the bubonic plague—have been epidemics.

I could argue that, my own kids having been vaccinated, killing this rat is just taking the next step to prevent the spread of disease.  But then I’d have to admit that I know nothing about the rate of disease in rats versus squirrels, and can’t be bothered to research it.  A squirrel has been raiding our bird feeder for months, but he’s a cute fellow with a big bushy tail, and it’s fun to watch him climb straight down the string toward the feeder, and we wouldn’t dream of killing him.  The fact is, squirrel and rat behaviors are roughly the same, whereas the rat alone is icky—and that’s highly questionable justification for rubbing him out.

The elegant solution

Of course there’s a very simple solution to this problem:  the cat.  Except in the case of toxoplasmosis, a rat will generally avoid a cat’s hunting ground, and our cat is probably why our backyard has been rat-free for so long.  But perhaps this rat is smart enough to realize, having had hundreds of opportunities to witness our cat’s laziness, that she doesn’t pose the slightest threat.

So the last time I saw the rat, I ran inside and grabbed Misha.  I brought her outside, hoping the rat would still be there.  It was.  I set Misha down about four feet away and she’s either totally blind and unable to smell, or simply has zero interest in hunting.  She didn’t make a single move toward that rat, which trotted away with what seemed like an annoying air of joie-de-vivre.  Misha then plopped herself down on the warm flagstones to relax.  I snapped this photo moments later.

So, as far as removing pests, Misha is worthless.  Many argue that all cats are useless.  Of course I disagree; a cat is very elegant, and nice to have on your lap or in your bed.  But as easy as cats are to keep, their companionship has a price.  As I sit here typing, Misha is meowing her head off for her dinner.  Plus, I have the ongoing ritual of fishing her turds and clumped-up urine balls out of the cat box.  At night she sometimes scratches at the door.  When we go  on vacation we have to get somebody to look after her.

The rat, meanwhile, is utterly self-sufficient and quiet.  If I can get past that tail, and its classification as filthy vermin, and start to look upon it as a pet, maybe my problem will be solved.

Conclusion

Do you smell a rat?  Because I don’t.  All I smell is the cat box.

Epilogue:  Our hero!

Well, less than a day after I originally posted this, the rat ordeal is over.  It seems I have greatly underestimated Misha, our 14-year-old cat, and I owe her an apology.  Her finest hour came this afternoon:

She was so proud.  She paraded the rat around, bringing it to every door hoping to be let in so she could take a victory lap around the house.  Honestly, I didn't think she had it in her!  I guess that rat didn’t either....