Swine flu. H1N1. Whatever you want to call it, it's become the newest great parental debate. To immunize or not to immunize? That is the question.
Never before have I questioned my pediatrician's advice on immunizations. To me, a quick poke and a low grade fever was always the better choice when compared to measles, mumps, rubella, or chicken pox. To me, it's always been a no-brainer. Why would I risk putting my girls through a serious illness like that?
But this one...this one has been different. Ask your neighbor, coworker, or grocery store clerk about it, and you're more likely than not to get a passionate reaction. Research everything you can online, and you'll probably have an anxiety attack before you find an answer about what to do.
At first I waffled a great deal. I leaned very heavily towards not getting the vaccine for my girls. Swayed mostly by friends' opinions, lack of information, and scary stories, I thought for sure I wouldn't put this "unknown" into my children's bodies. But then I spoke to our pediatrician, the nurse, the parents of children in my class who came down with it. And I realized that this was not something I wanted them exposed to.
I guess maybe it would be different if I were a stay-at-home mom. Though not ideal, I could weather a winter indoors, avoiding crowds, sick kids, and other people's germs. But I'm a teacher. My husband is an assistant principal. My girls go to preschool all day, five days a week. We're all exposed to other kids and their germs all day long. I felt like we were sitting ducks, or ticking time bombs...like it was only a matter of time before one of us brought it home and we all got ill.
Of course, by the time I made up my mind, the vaccine had become next to impossible to get. The students in my class and my school were dropping like flies. At one count, we had over 20% of our school's population absent, mostly with flu-like symptoms, and most who were down for 5-7 days. My mama bear instinct took over. I had to get those shots.
By now, our pediatrician couldn't help. They just didn't have enough for everyone. So this morning, at 5:45 a.m., a few other teacher/mommy friends and I pulled up our boot straps and took one for the team.
We got in line at one of the public health clinics being held in our area. We arrived at 6 a.m. and were approximately 70 people back. It was dark, it was cold, and it was raining. Even as we stood there, I had mixed feelings. I felt strongly that I didn't want to feed into the panic that has gripped our society in the wake of this "pandemic." But at the same time, I just wanted my girls to be healthy and safe.
I feared most for Aubrey, who seems to catch absolutely every virus she comes in contact with. She's constantly got a cough, a runny nose, an ear infection, or a fever. I knew that this flu could be really bad for her. But still, I couldn't shake the feeling of desperation in the halls of the high school, where the line snaked back and forth, like we were waiting for a ride at Disneyland. But there was no magical elephant at the end of this line. There was only a painful shot, and the hope that this was the right thing to do to protect my kids.
When we finally reached the immunization point, we mommies had waited in line for nearly 4 hours. The daddies and kids had been there for over 2. It was definitely not fun, and the whole time, it felt somewhat surreal. When we eventually left, we were tired, tear-streaked, and two vaccines "richer," even though that's not quite what it felt like.
I kept hoping that when it was all said and done, that a sense of relief would wash over me. It never did. Instead, I left still hoping that my trust in my pediatrician was well founded. That this
was the right thing to do. And I left with the knowledge that in another 28 days, we're going to have to do it all over again, to get second doses in order to make sure they're 100% protected. And I just hope. I hope I chose the right "door." The one with the big prize behind it. Not a car, or a vacation, or a huge sum of money, but instead, the lesser of two evils.
For the big things: our home, jobs, and cars, the health of our family (mental state excluded), and my understanding husband.
