“I hope needles don’t speak English.”
I hope needles don’t speak English. If they could, they might not pardon me for the words of hate I had for their life-saving selves as a child. I’d like to apologize to vaccines around the world for the behavior I exhibited during those years, and I pray that if I ever have another anaphylactic reaction, the needle inside of my Epi-Pen will forgive me and work to deliver enough epinephrine to keep my heart beating and my throat open.
Hopefully, they can understand where I’m coming from, for at the ripe old age of four, I took a bite of a peanut butter egg on Easter and almost died. The mere thought of a vaccination tray made my skin crawl after the scariest night of my life in the back of an ambulance and the emergency room at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital.
Admittedly, it’s ironic that I loathed the very instrument which can save my life, the instrument I now realize saves millions of lives each year. However, since April 8th, 2007, I’ve longed for an easier way. I couldn’t believe that one-twentieth of a peanut was enough to kill an eighty-pound child like myself. Then I wondered why my allergist kept drawing my blood year after year if she was bound to say the same thing: my antibody count was too high to be measured, and that if I had another reaction and wasn’t within fifteen minutes of a hospital, I wouldn’t be seeing my parents for a long time.
Now, I enjoy appointments because my doctor knows my question, “What’s new?” entails an answer with more depth than “Oh, just same old same old.” Instead, we take time every checkup to explore the latest research and dive into why we’re able to transplant hearts and regrow stem cells but not able to pinpoint causes for asthma or autism--conditions that not only impact some of my closest friends, but people from all backgrounds who deserve to live with as little medical disruption in their lives as possible.
One day in the future, I hope to be the doctor explaining asthma to a recently diagnosed preschooler or researching ways to silence the response of peanut-detecting immune cells; as I demonstrate how to use the Epi-Pen, I’m sure the night of April 8th will pop into my head like it has so many times before. But instead of praying it never happens to anyone ever again, I’ll be thankful. Not only that I survived, but more importantly that it provoked me to discover a field where I can utilize my curiosity and passion to contribute to the security and health of others.
No matter the specialty I pursue, from immunology to emergency medicine, I’ll have to make sure I know how to calm down those screaming little kids before their shots. And by the way, trying to bribe them with stickers doesn’t work--I would know.
- Garrett S.