Fear of the Jab

Fact: every child is absolutely terrified of injections. When you are a baby getting your shots, you moan and cry, just about until the next ice-cream shows on your radar. At such a young age, you are very likely to have that memory erased from your brain for good. But what do you do when you are a bit older, say 7-8 years old, and you realize that injections are not a thing of the past, and you feel their menacing presence every day? What happens when communism medicine doesn’t give a shit about children and their fears or pain?

This is school life during vaccination age in the 80s. In my school, gasps of horror were heard when nurses walked by in the hallways. It could be two things: lice or vaccines. But the biggest collective gasp would come with the misfortune of seeing the nurses enter your own classroom, interrupting lessons – which, for the first time, seemed like the better option. White coats, permed hair, gestures resembling women working at the butcher shop, they greeted everybody with a satisfied smirk on their face, that only the confidence of holding big tins with syringes could bring. 

They’d place the clunky metal boxes on the desk and announce the inevitable vaccination marathon, talking over the muffled cries, silent breaths and desperate prayers. Those quick on their feet would dart out of the classroom, running as far as they could until the teacher would find them and bring them back. Then there were the courageous few that obeyed the orders to line up and get their shot.  What category was I in? The silent breath one, disguised as courage. My fear was palpable but my analytical mind was hard at work. I knew that waiting in line for a vaccine would only prolong the horror so I offered to go first all the time. In my head, it all made sense: get it over with quickly, then laugh at the other guys. The nurses always remembered me and called me “the courageous one”. Glad my act was that good, where’s my Oscar… Truth is, in time I got used to vaccines and the fear became bearable. 

… Except for the times when fear-mongering stories started going around. One of my first grade class mates, let’s call her Daisy, was quite a story teller. During one break, she grabbed me by the hand and walked me out in the hallway, stopping in front of a backdoor that was always locked. Through the glass and the metal grill, she showed me the backyard, and pointed out a strange metal container that had appeared there overnight. “You know, there’s a dead girl in there” she said, with the tone of an evil kid telling horror stories at camp. “REALLY?” I said, eyes bulging, silent breath. “Yes, she was 14, and she died because of the vaccine”. Oh no… But I didn’t want to die from the vaccine. Who was the girl in the container? Why did they put her there? More importantly, what are they covering?

As you can see, although there was no internet to perpetuate misinformation at the time, we had Daisy and her wild imagination. Of course that was just enough to sow the seed of fear into any kid before a vaccine. Darting out of the classroom was perceived as a life-saving gesture, when little anti-vaxxer Daisy spread her fake news.  

Vaccines did hurt – as you remember, I mentioned metal tins. Those were not for disposable syringes with tiny needles, those were for huge glass syringes with thicker than average needles, sterilized most likely by boiling in water and other disinfectants. Seeing that ‘thing’ get closer to your arm or leg in the hand of a butcher nurse was like bracing for a comet impact. 

My mom had a syringe like that, which I liked to look at, and even play with from time to time. Thinking back, it was almost like a medieval medical device. A thick glass barrel, with a metal plunger and various size metal needles, the biggest – the length of a finger. I would always ask for “the small one” for my injections, as if that made a difference, it was just shorter, but as thick as others. 

My mom was ahead of her time – she identified a need and took action. Because going to the doctor for an injection was always an hours-long ordeal waiting in a chaotic line, trying to bribe your way to the doctor’s room, she learned to administer injections, and she could give us the required treatment herself when we got colds and pneumonias (because, lucky us, back in the day communists invested in medical research, and doctors prescribed Romanian made injections for colds… fml). She made sure to boast about her special skill, so as word spread, the entire family and neighborhood would ask for her injections when they had them prescribed. She would always boil that syringe to sterilize it and would use it on everyone but especially on her own kids. That’s what happens when disposable syringes are not a thing. But at least you get to hate your own mother after you get poked with the “little needle” right in the butt, and then walk like a penguin for days. Blame it on the communists and their medicine …