The woman sighed and apologized.

She was checking me in for my first vaccine shot. We were at a converted big box store in an almost abandoned strip mall on the west side of Indianapolis.

It was early afternoon. There was a long line of people ahead of me and a long line behind me.

The woman at the makeshift desk was frustrated. Her computer had frozen. She said she was sorry.

I told her it was okay.

There were a lot of people in line waiting to get their shots, I said. That was a lot of work for her and her colleagues and for whatever computer system they were using.

“There also are a lot of people trying to register,” she said, weariness soaking her voice. “That’s slowing the system down.”

She was about my age — well beyond her first spring.

I mentioned the state had just announced that a new age group — 45 to 49 — could sign up for shots.

“They’re letting the youngsters in now,” I said.

She smiled, then chuckled.

“Yeah,” she said and handed me my forms.

I told her how much I appreciated the work she and her colleagues were doing. I said I knew it had to exhausting.

But it was essential.

Is essential.

She smiled again and thanked me.

Then pointed me to the line where I should wait for my shot.

I looked at the people gathered to get their vaccines.

Many were like me, in overall good health and thus easy to manage in a process that involved waiting in line and following instructions.

But there were others, too.

A guy a few stops in front of me used a walker. He wore a faded cap that touted his military service in worn and now indecipherable symbols.

The staff at the vaccination site helped him through the line. Whenever they told him what he had to do or to which station he had to move next, he said, “What?”

They repeated what they’d said, a little louder but without taking any of the kindness or courtesy out of their tones.

When I sat down at the nurse’s station to get my shot, I looked at the secured container holding the used and discarded needles.

I asked the nurse if those were all from that day.

“Just from the last couple hours,” she said.

Then, even though she must have been dead on her feet, she went through the drill. She asked me about allergies or other reactions that might make taking the vaccine hazardous to my health.

After she had gone through the checklist with diligent patience, she swabbed my left arm with alcohol and gave me my shot.

As I thanked her, she removed the needle and put it in the storage bin.

One more of how many? A hundred? More than that? And of how many such storage bins?

She instructed me to go sign up for my next shot and then wait for 10 minutes to make sure I had no adverse reactions before leaving.

As I sat waiting to be released, I looked around the big room.

There were dozens of people who, like me, waited to be released. Dozens and dozens and dozens more either were getting their shots or were in line waiting to get a shot.

And all around were public health workers scrambling, ushering, helping with seemingly infinite patience and unfailing kindness.

Over the past year, we often have touted the courage of our healthcare workers — as we should.

But we also ought to acknowledge their sheer professionalism and determination.

It is — it must be — hard, mind-numbing labor to do the same thing over and over. It also must be difficult to deal with people who are often frightened, confused or just plain frustrated.

The people working in this building must be more sick and tired of the pandemic than anyone.

But that hasn’t stopped them from doing their jobs and treating their fellow human beings with consideration and respect.

As I left, I took one last look at the big building and all those in it.

I felt good about getting my shot.

And even better who had given it to me.

John Krull is director of Franklin College’s Pulliam School of Journalism and publisher of TheStatehouseFile.com, a news website powered by Franklin College journalism students. Send comments to [email protected].