(This fictitious story is based on a real-life incident. It’s being repeated because the issue that caused it to be written the first time is back again – more seriously, more potentially deadly.)
Nurse Koszin spotted the young mother at the coffee machine tucked away in the far corner of the cafeteria. At this time of night, the serving line was closed, and the chrome and red laminate tables and chairs were neatly arranged – and empty. By the overhead spotlight, she could see the dark circles and the smeared mascara of a parent floundering in pity and pain.
“Mrs. Thompson? Mrs. Thompson. There you are,” she said lightly.
“Yes?!” The mother’s strident voice echoed through the empty room. “Is anything wrong?”
“No, no.” She tried to make her voice as reassuring as possible. “Little Janie is doing fine, actually improving. That’s why Doctor wanted to talk with you. He’s ready to remove the breathing tube and wanted to talk with you about the procedure. You know – what to expect.”
The mother’s eyes relaxed, but still looked haunted. “I’m just so worried.” Her words flowed out like dammed up water. “It’s been three days since she went into Peds ICU. I thought she was going to die.”
“Measles can do that,” the nurse said, her voice straining with her own emotion, “just sneak up on us without warning. It’s been years since we’ve seen measles pneumonia. Actually, there’s been no measles transmission at all since before 2000.” She paused and reflected. How far should she go? “When enough children aren’t immunized, the disease can break through.”
“But they told us that the immunizations were dangerous.” The mother’s anxiety was turning to anger. “They said that the measles vaccine was causing autism. Then they said that the thimerosal in the vaccines was causing it.” Her quivering hand touched her forehead, brushing back loose strands of hair. “But they didn’t tell me that measles could kill my child!”
“Most young parents have never seen these childhood diseases – like I did when I was a kid.” The nurse’s memory flashed back to a little red-roofed house just beyond her favorite tree to play in as a child. “The mother of my best friend spent four years in an iron lung, paralyzed from the neck down with polio. And she was one of the lucky ones; she survived – in a wheelchair.”
“Why don’t they tell us these things? Why don’t we know?” The mother’s fists were balled up, waiting to punch some unseen adversary.
“Lots of reasons,” the nurse said with a sad smile, “mostly having to do with parents who love their kids and want to see them avoid the latest popular disease – in this case, autism. They took the thimerosal out of the vaccines in 2001. But autism rates continue to climb – probably because we’re more aware of it and better at detecting it.” She leaned against the back of the nearest chair, exhausted from the long shift at the hospital, exhausted from the retelling of these statistics to five sets of parents whose children had come through the Peds ICU in the last week. “The truth is – believe it or not – vaccinations don’t cause autism. They don’t cause exhaustion of the immune system. They save thousands of lives and billions of dollars in hospital costs – and prevent millions of infections like Janie has.”
“I can’t make heads or tails out of the information coming from the . . . the . . . whatever that agency is in Washington that’s supposed to tell us what’s the right thing to do.” The mother spoke with palpable anger.
“Well, yes. The CDC. That’s part of the problem.” The nurse reminded herself to be careful. “The information coming from that source isn’t as reliable as it used to be. Confusing I think is the right word.”
“Then whom do I trust to care for my child?”
The nurse smiled reassuringly. “The same one you trusted to care for her now.”
“Dr. Johns?”
Nurse Koszin nodded. “He knows the right thing to do.”
The mother’s balled-up hands opened. She looked at them, then folded them together as if to hide their owner in the darkened interior of their palms. She raised her hands to her mouth, touching her lips with a quiet prayer. “Janie’s going to be alright, isn’t she?” she whispered
“Yes, I think so,” the nurse quickly reassured her. She reached out her hand. “Let’s go talk to Doctor,” she said, clasping the tired mother’s hand and leading her past the first row of tables. She stopped. “Do you have other children?” she asked earnestly.
Mother nodded with closed eyes.
“Get them vaccinated.”
