A few weeks ago, Mr. P and I paid a visit to our friendly neighborhood travel clinic to inoculate ourselves against all of the disease and pestilence which we will soon encounter during our impending journeys abroad.
I knew I would probably need shots, but I had no idea:
“Hepatitis, meningitis, yellow fever, plus you’re overdue for a polio booster and a tetanus shot,” said the doctor, a formable blond German woman who ticked off entries on my menu of vaccines like she was ordering sushi.
“That’s five?” I asked, dazed. “Can you do them all at once?”
“No, we’ll do some today, and some next week. The Yellow Fever vaccine is a live one, so you’ll have to come back on a Thursday night.”
Actually, I had meant “Can you do them all in the same syringe?” but guess not. Since my fear of needles is legion (here) I was relieved that the sixth and final vaccine I would need — for typhoid — was an oral vaccine.
I got three shots that same day and two more shots when I came back for Yellow Fever night at the travel clinic. Mr. P and I each got the typhoid oral vaccine, a series of four pills that have to be kept refrigerated. “Live Typhoid!” the box of pills proclaims.
I waited a week or so for my body to recover from the assault on the immune system before I could even consider starting the typhoid vaccine.
“Honey, where’d you put the typhoid?” I called to Mr. P this morning as I rummaged through the refrigerator.
“Next to the butter,” he called.
Why was I surprised that ingesting live, powdered typhoid made me feel a wee bit nauseous? All day I nursed a queasy headache that was quite similar to a hard-liquor hangover, though I haven’t had one of those in years. I suppose my discomfort is nothing compared to actual typhoid, but egads.
After all these vaccinations, I will have the immunity of a demigod.
