It wasn’t until fairly recently that I learned that one of
the biggest and most stressful obstacles of my early childhood wouldn’t
have happened today, thanks to one of the least-praised but most important
vaccines in history.
The Hib vaccine, which grants children immunity to a nasty little bacterium called Haemophilus influenzae type B, is so little-known that most parents don’t even recognize the name. Many of those parents even waive it when they take their kids to the pediatrician, dangerously assuming that a vaccine for a disease they've never heard of must be an unnecessary vaccine. Yet thanks to the Hib vaccine, I can be confident that my children won’t suffer the same disease I did.
The Hib vaccine, which grants children immunity to a nasty little bacterium called Haemophilus influenzae type B, is so little-known that most parents don’t even recognize the name. Many of those parents even waive it when they take their kids to the pediatrician, dangerously assuming that a vaccine for a disease they've never heard of must be an unnecessary vaccine. Yet thanks to the Hib vaccine, I can be confident that my children won’t suffer the same disease I did.
In addition to preventing limitless suffering, it has also
saved countless lives. The CDC estimates that, prior to the vaccine’s
introduction in 1990, 20,000 children in the U.S. developed infections from Hib
every year, and about six percent died. That means this one underappreciated
vaccine has saved the lives of some 30,000 children, and has prevented the
suffering of 470,000 more.
That’s a big deal.
Personal stories always reach further and deeper than statistics, though. So here is my own story of Hib before the vaccine.
It was mid-April of 1990. I had just turned three, so my memories of the illness are foggy and surreal. Most people don’t have memories this early in life, but my experience with Hib was traumatizing enough that flashes of the details were burned into my memory forever. I even still sometimes have brief flashbacks to the experience when I’m sick with a fever.
I remember that my eye itched and burned. I remember my mother telling me that I had pinkeye, and I was confused because I had been told before that my eyes were brown. It hurt more and more, and my vision grew weird and blurry. I lay down on a hard tile floor somewhere and drifted in and out of strange dreams while I listened to the murmur of grown-up conversation. By now, it seemed that half of my face was a big, painful, hot balloon. I couldn’t open my eye anymore and the pain was terrible.
I remember the smell of my grandmother—Misty cigarettes—and I remember her distant-sounding voice saying, “This baby is burning up,” in a tone that sounded urgent. I thought she meant that I was on fire, and I was confused but felt like it explained a lot. I remember her lifting my face, leaning close to me, and saying, "What happened to your face, sweetheart? Did someone hit you? Did someone hit you?" I know now that she thought I had been beaten, because the severe facial swelling of a child with orbital cellulitis looks to a layperson like extreme physical trauma.
I remember being in the hospital in a strange room. A lady I didn't recognize kept telling me, “It’s okay,” and I kept hearing her say the word “shot.” The shot she was trying to give me was different from the ones I'd had before, though—it was hooked up to something. It was wrong. This whole place was wrong, and I was confused and scared. I screamed and I cried, and when I couldn't escape from her, I tried to hit her. She said, “Shhhh,” into my ears several times and gave me a lollipop, but I didn’t want it. The needle went into my arm. I cried, “I want Mama!” over and over again. I’m certain that my mother was with me most of the time that I was in the hospital, but in the moment that my memory preserved, she wasn’t there, and there was nothing in the world that scared me more than that.
I remember seeing people from my family come to visit me—lots of them. Some of them brought candy or small toys. My father brought me a playset of baby-dolls, tiny ones the size of my hands. I didn’t want any of them.
Easter passed while I was in the hospital. The Easter Bunny himself came to my hospital room, big and brown and furry. He gave me an Easter basket and a small fuzzy toy called a “boo-boo bunny” that was made to make me feel better. I thought it was magical and held onto it for several years afterward.
My mother told me years later, when I mistakenly mentioned “the time I was in the hospital with pinkeye,” that I’d actually been suffering from a severe case of orbital cellulitis, which is inflammation and infection of the eye and the surrounding area. Although the prognosis wasn’t too bad, it was the kind of thing that needed intensive treatment: without fast antibiotics, orbital cellulitis spreads into the bloodstream, nerves, and brain, claiming the lives of 17% of children who contract it and causing permanent blindness in another 20%. This is what happens when children contract and recover from Hib "naturally." And it's not pretty.
I’m a sucker for science and fascinated by the way that memory in early childhood is preserved, so, as a young adult, I ended up collecting my records from the hospital that had treated me, and I still have them in my possession. I expected nothing but a confirmation of the accuracy of those hazy memories, but I was surprised by four words that I saw: Haemophilus influenzae type B. Those words meant nothing to me before I became a vaccine advocate, but seeing them now, it hit me: this wouldn’t happen today.
Studies have confirmed that, since the introduction of the Hib vaccine, very, very few cases of ocular cellulitis have occurred. The last twenty-five years have seen a sharp decline in the number of cases, and the ones that still happen are almost always caused by other bacteria, like strep and staph. Children today rarely go through what I went through.
That’s not all the Hib vaccine does, of course. Prior to the vaccine, Hib was a major cause of pneumonia, airway inflammation, and meningitis. In fact, its efficacy in preventing meningitis has earned it a reputation as the “bacterial meningitis vaccine.” This is a slight misnomer, since Hib causes more than just meningitis and since bacterial meningitis has other causes. But the facts and data are clear: the Hib vaccine has saved countless lives.
I wasn’t always a vaccine advocate. I used to be far on the other side of the fence. But I’m glad that I learned my lesson, and I’m glad that my children will almost certainly never have to endure the fear and agony that I went through as a toddler. Hib infections are terrible, and children deserve protection.
That’s a big deal.
Personal stories always reach further and deeper than statistics, though. So here is my own story of Hib before the vaccine.
It was mid-April of 1990. I had just turned three, so my memories of the illness are foggy and surreal. Most people don’t have memories this early in life, but my experience with Hib was traumatizing enough that flashes of the details were burned into my memory forever. I even still sometimes have brief flashbacks to the experience when I’m sick with a fever.
I remember that my eye itched and burned. I remember my mother telling me that I had pinkeye, and I was confused because I had been told before that my eyes were brown. It hurt more and more, and my vision grew weird and blurry. I lay down on a hard tile floor somewhere and drifted in and out of strange dreams while I listened to the murmur of grown-up conversation. By now, it seemed that half of my face was a big, painful, hot balloon. I couldn’t open my eye anymore and the pain was terrible.
I remember the smell of my grandmother—Misty cigarettes—and I remember her distant-sounding voice saying, “This baby is burning up,” in a tone that sounded urgent. I thought she meant that I was on fire, and I was confused but felt like it explained a lot. I remember her lifting my face, leaning close to me, and saying, "What happened to your face, sweetheart? Did someone hit you? Did someone hit you?" I know now that she thought I had been beaten, because the severe facial swelling of a child with orbital cellulitis looks to a layperson like extreme physical trauma.
I remember being in the hospital in a strange room. A lady I didn't recognize kept telling me, “It’s okay,” and I kept hearing her say the word “shot.” The shot she was trying to give me was different from the ones I'd had before, though—it was hooked up to something. It was wrong. This whole place was wrong, and I was confused and scared. I screamed and I cried, and when I couldn't escape from her, I tried to hit her. She said, “Shhhh,” into my ears several times and gave me a lollipop, but I didn’t want it. The needle went into my arm. I cried, “I want Mama!” over and over again. I’m certain that my mother was with me most of the time that I was in the hospital, but in the moment that my memory preserved, she wasn’t there, and there was nothing in the world that scared me more than that.
I remember seeing people from my family come to visit me—lots of them. Some of them brought candy or small toys. My father brought me a playset of baby-dolls, tiny ones the size of my hands. I didn’t want any of them.
Easter passed while I was in the hospital. The Easter Bunny himself came to my hospital room, big and brown and furry. He gave me an Easter basket and a small fuzzy toy called a “boo-boo bunny” that was made to make me feel better. I thought it was magical and held onto it for several years afterward.
My mother told me years later, when I mistakenly mentioned “the time I was in the hospital with pinkeye,” that I’d actually been suffering from a severe case of orbital cellulitis, which is inflammation and infection of the eye and the surrounding area. Although the prognosis wasn’t too bad, it was the kind of thing that needed intensive treatment: without fast antibiotics, orbital cellulitis spreads into the bloodstream, nerves, and brain, claiming the lives of 17% of children who contract it and causing permanent blindness in another 20%. This is what happens when children contract and recover from Hib "naturally." And it's not pretty.
I’m a sucker for science and fascinated by the way that memory in early childhood is preserved, so, as a young adult, I ended up collecting my records from the hospital that had treated me, and I still have them in my possession. I expected nothing but a confirmation of the accuracy of those hazy memories, but I was surprised by four words that I saw: Haemophilus influenzae type B. Those words meant nothing to me before I became a vaccine advocate, but seeing them now, it hit me: this wouldn’t happen today.
Studies have confirmed that, since the introduction of the Hib vaccine, very, very few cases of ocular cellulitis have occurred. The last twenty-five years have seen a sharp decline in the number of cases, and the ones that still happen are almost always caused by other bacteria, like strep and staph. Children today rarely go through what I went through.
That’s not all the Hib vaccine does, of course. Prior to the vaccine, Hib was a major cause of pneumonia, airway inflammation, and meningitis. In fact, its efficacy in preventing meningitis has earned it a reputation as the “bacterial meningitis vaccine.” This is a slight misnomer, since Hib causes more than just meningitis and since bacterial meningitis has other causes. But the facts and data are clear: the Hib vaccine has saved countless lives.
I wasn’t always a vaccine advocate. I used to be far on the other side of the fence. But I’m glad that I learned my lesson, and I’m glad that my children will almost certainly never have to endure the fear and agony that I went through as a toddler. Hib infections are terrible, and children deserve protection.
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