It had been 27 hours since I was injected with the Ebola vaccine. I was sitting in the waiting room for my first follow-up visit, and an older woman asked if I was part of the study. Her husband was also taking part. She raved about how he was totally fine - his arm wasn’t even sore! The columns in his journal, rating symptoms from a severity of zero to four, were a string of zeros. It was at that moment I realized I probably wasn’t in the placebo control group.

I didn’t know people would recognize me from the news as “that girl who got the Ebola vaccine,” (said by a stranger in the elevator of my apartment building), but I felt the need to speak publicly about it so people could understand why participants are doing this and how it’s done. Participants genuinely want to help out and are curious and excited about the vaccine. Of course, the $1,100 payment doesn’t hurt, but it doesn’t seem to be the only reason people signed up for the trials.

The screening process was rigorous. They took samples of blood, saliva and urine, did extensive physical checks, an ECG and even a pregnancy test. Additionally, there was a list of questions in which the answer to each had to be “no”, similar to the blood donation process.

After the injection, participants keep a journal tracking symptoms and medications, and must attend several follow-up visits. When people tell me there’s a reason why they’re paying so much, thinking the vaccine is dangerous or sketchy, I tell them the time commitment is probably the reason for the large sum of money. The study involves one month of frequent follow-ups, and sparse appointments for the next 5 months.

I’ve received mostly positive comments from friends, family, and strangers who saw me on TV. The usually silent doorman to my apartment building was extra eager to hold the heavy front door for me over the weekend, as he shyly asked me how my arm was feeling.

In the produce section at a local market I noticed I was getting more looks than usual. Even though the virus is most likely not contagious, people probably didn’t want me fondling the tomatoes with my potentially VSV-infected hands, so I decided to save my fruit and veggie shopping for another day. When I got back to my apartment, the same doorman offered to carry my groceries, still concerned about my arm.

After my classmates jokingly veered away from me, and friends anxiously stayed clear post-injection, I decided to put myself into isolation in my one bedroom apartment with my two cats. After a super fun evening of flicking a laser pointer around for them to chase, I was startled awake at night by a subconscious remembrance that VSV is an animal virus; can cats get infected? A frantic Google search confirmed it can only infect insects, cattle, horses and pigs, but that was the most panic I’d had since signing up for the trials, which either says a lot about the care I’ve received or my too-laid-back personality.

I’ve received some negative comments as well, calling me greedy and stupid, but being part of this groundbreaking study that could potentially save hundreds of lives, to me, is worth any hostility or side effect I’ve had.