Have you ever felt painfully inadequate in explaining something you’ve “just known” all your life? It happens to me – maybe more often than it does to others – but it happens. Today was one of those times.
So, despite being a yuppie homesteader and living an agricultural life, I have allergies. Lots and lots of allergies. I’m basically allergic to just about everything. Dust? Makes me sneeze. Cats? Those two… and those, too. Mold, pollen, ragweed, perfumes… it all makes me sneeze. In fact, I can sneeze so often and so hard that I used to call it my workout plan. According to friends, my “record” is 27 consecutive sneezes. I’ll have to take their word for it; I don’t count ‘em.
But one of the things I am allergic to is pretty serious. I had a severe anaphylactic reaction to my first DPT vaccine as a child. Anaphylaxis is a type of serious allergic reaction. The severe version of anaphylaxis is when you develop a full respiratory arrest. Back in 1969, it wasn’t uncommon for children to have a severe allergic reaction to some vaccines. Both the proteins that were used and the timing of vaccines related to the development of a child’s immune system meant that more kids reacted than they do today. After my reaction, my pediatrician was clear: no more vaccines ever. In fact, I remember that they had lined up the entire second grade in school to get vaccine boosters. I was standing in line because that’s what the teacher told me to do when the school nurse walked by. I spent the next half-hour being told that I was to “never, ever” get in the vaccine line again. That was before my mom arrived at the school and delivered the ever-so-comforting message of, “Gail Colleen, the next vaccine you receive could kill you.” Thanks Mom. Is it okay if I get the tater tots at lunch or is that going to kill me, too?
So, fast forward 50-odd years from that fateful day that I had the allergic reaction to my first DPT and we’re chest-high into a pandemic and I want a Covid vaccine. What’s an allergic thing like me to do? Well, first stop was my allergist/immunologists’ office. But, here’s where the embarrassing part comes in. He asks me to recount what happened.
Now, it’s been three years since my mom’s death and there’s only one last living person who was a witness to that day besides me. That would be my childhood next-door-neighbor, who just happened to be a 24-year-old state trooper who responded when my mom came flying out of the house with me in her arms asking him to use his trooper vehicle to get me to the hospital. My records have since vanished and all that’s left is the oral history I know and my neighbor’s memory. So, when my doctor asked me to recount the story, I felt a little unprepared.
All I knew was the story I had been told. My mom had just returned from taking me to the pediatrician for my first DPT. My aunt was there and, as they were both registered nurses, they noticed I was having a reaction. My mom and aunt asked my neighbor and his partner for a ride to the hospital. My mom kept gently smacking me on the 10-minute ride to the hospital as I would stop breathing and she was stimulating me to breathe. When I finally got there, my dad – who had been at work – met my mom at the door of the hospital, grabbed me and I completely stopped breathing. They ran in together and someone gave me a shot of epinephrine. I stayed in the hospital overnight and made a full recovery. The pediatrician – who it turns out had given me both the DPT and the epinephrine – was visibly shaken, according to my mom. She told me he kept repeating, “I could have lost a baby today.” All I know for certain was that he wrote on my immunization records, “Anaphylaxis to first DPT. NO MORE SHOTS.” He even underlined it. That was it. It was 1969 for goodness sake. There was no skin testing, no serum testing and no other solutions to a potentially life-threatening situation. Just avoid it and move on.
Throughout my life, there would be these “near brushes” with immunizations. I had pertussis – the very thing they surmised I reacted to in the vaccine – when I was two. There was the second-grade incident. The third-grade rebellion when I rode a horse at a neighbor’s farm until my mom caught wind of it. I couldn’t get a tetanus shot, she said to me. I wasn’t even allowed around the horses. The other kids stayed and played; mom and me went home. Over the years, there would be other near misses. When I had titers drawn once, the doctor noticed I had no measles, mumps and rubella immunity and the nurse came in with the shots, which by then I knew enough to decline. There was the college entrance with no vaccine history and ultimately, a career working in medicine when I couldn’t get a flu shot.
All of my life, I’ve wanted to be vaccinated. I couldn’t dream about a safari in Africa, a stint as a Peace Corps volunteer or even a countryside horseback ride. Avoidance seemed the best policy. I was the “one in a million of the one in a million,” I was told. Most kids who had the reaction I had didn’t live. While the reaction itself was incredibly rare, my survival was just as rare. Just keep your head down, stay out of trouble and, for God’s sake, avoid a rusty nail. Now why a rusty nail was so ingrained into my consciousness, I’m not certain, but there it was.
So, as I sat in my doctor’s office today recounting this oral history and feeling like I’m a good historian of my own health care, when the doctor starts asking questions. Was it a full code? Did my heart stop? “I don’t know,” I replied. “I have a residual function heart murmur as a result,” I added helpfully. “Were you ever skin tested to find out what you reacted to?” he asked. “Umm, I was skin-tested in the 70’s,” I reply. “I don’t know what they checked for but they had to stop it about a half-hour in because I was reacting to everything.” That didn’t help my cause, for he asked, “What was everything?” I started to feel even more inadequate. “I don’t know,” I mumbled.
Now, my doctor is a wonderful, kind man. He wasn’t judging me; I was judging myself. Something so critical to my wellbeing and I realized I have very inadequate knowledge about it. And now, wanting to get a vaccine that could help save me from the pandemic, I realize how much my strategy of blissful unawareness has come back to bite me.
In the end, we came up with a plan. There’s no way to recreate the vaccine I had in 1969 and use it to skin test me to find out what I reacted to. There’s no sense – as I’ve been told countless times – for me to go back and get vaccines meant to prevent childhood illness. Instead, the impetus is now and the Covid vaccine. It’s simple enough to do a challenge test where the doctor gives me a little of the vaccine and if I don’t react, I get the remaining dose. If I don’t react after that and need a second dose, I can likely get that in one fell swoop.
Then, for the first time in my life I will be able to claim that I am partially vaccinated. It will feel like a true “coming of age” moment. For as much as no little kid wants to see the needle of a vaccine coming at them, being an unvaccinated adult has meant a lifetime of maneuvering around risks and giving up opportunities that others wouldn’t have to think about. With one shot, I cross the threshold to join the vaccinated public. In my future – if it’s possible – I’d like to get the pneumonia and shingles vaccine.
But mostly, I want to get this shot. For me, it will be the personal end to the pandemic. I’ll still mask up, I’ll still social distance and I’ll still follow the rules. But the risk of serious disease? I won’t have that particular Sword of Damocles over my head. And that, ahh, will feel so good.
The Yuppie Homesteader 