Time to put the healthcare hat back on for a bit.
I know—everyone enjoys a short break from grief. Trust me, I do too. But here we are again, driving down the same highway because apparently, we still haven’t learned the lesson.
And honestly? It would be nice if we learned it sooner rather than later.
I find myself increasingly confused by the romanticism surrounding childhood diseases.
Yes—romanticism.
Because somehow, somewhere along the way, we decided that things like measles were just a quaint little rite of passage. A harmless inconvenience. A nostalgic memory.
You hear it all the time:
“Oh, back in the day we had measles parties.”
As if it was a birthday party.
Swing by little Susie’s house. Have some cake. Drink some punch. Go home with a party favor—a highly contagious viral infection.
Adorable.
What those stories conveniently leave out is the part where parents were absolutely terrified.
Because measles is not a benign illness.
It’s not just a rash.
It starts with a high fever—often 104°F or higher—along with cough, runny nose, and inflamed eyes. Then come the Koplik spots inside the mouth, followed by the classic rash spreading from the face down across the body.
And that’s just the opening act.
Complications are where things get ugly:
- Ear infections
- Severe diarrhea
- Pneumonia
- Encephalitis (brain inflammation)
And then there’s the long game.
A rare but fatal condition called subacute sclerosing panencephalitis (SSPE) can develop 7–10 years later, slowly destroying the brain.
There’s also something called immune amnesia, where measles essentially wipes out the immune system’s memory—making you vulnerable to infections you were previously protected against.
Let that sink in.
It doesn’t just make you sick.
It makes you easier to kill later.
So I have to ask:
Is any of that worth risking your child’s life for nostalgia?
For a story?
For a “we did this back then and we turned out fine” anecdote?
Here’s a radical idea.
Instead of a measles party…
Have a vaccine party.
Same cake. Same punch. Same kids.
But nobody leaves with a potentially fatal disease.
And yet, here we are.
Still arguing about vaccines.
Still dragging out the ghost of Andrew Wakefield and his thoroughly debunked study.
Still watching misinformation echo through time because Jenny McCarthy helped give it a microphone.
Even Wakefield himself has acknowledged how flawed that research was.
Didn’t matter.
Once something false gets traction, it sticks. Retractions don’t travel nearly as fast as fear.
And then came COVID.
The same playbook, just louder.
People argued the vaccine wasn’t “properly approved,” ignoring what emergency authorization actually means. Yes, it was expedited. That’s what happens when people are dying at scale.
The technology—like mRNA—wasn’t new. It was just the first time most people had heard about it.
But nuance doesn’t trend.
Fear does.
Meanwhile, those of us on the front lines saw something very different.
We saw healthy people crash.
We saw lungs fail.
We saw families saying goodbye over FaceTime.
And a lot of that never made it into the public consciousness in a meaningful way. It was either underreported, softened, or drowned out by louder, more sensational narratives.
Because “everything is fine” doesn’t get clicks.
And neither does “this is complicated.”
At this point, I’m less convinced this is a science problem.
It feels more like a cultural problem.
A political problem.
Sometimes even a religious one.
Because the data is there. The outcomes are there. The history is there.
But belief doesn’t always care about evidence.
And when public health becomes influenced by people who fundamentally don’t believe in it?
That’s when things start to unravel.
Policy stops being about science.
And starts being about ideology.
So is there a fix?
I’ll be honest.
I’ve grown more cynical over the years.
Thirty years in medicine will do that to you.
But if there is a fix, it’s not complicated.
It’s just uncomfortable.
If you believe in vaccines…
If you believe in public health…
Then you don’t just nod quietly.
You ask questions.
You vote.
You pay attention to who is making decisions about healthcare—because those decisions don’t stay theoretical for long.
They show up in hospitals.
They show up in families.
They show up in graves.
For what it’s worth—
My dog is fully vaccinated.
And I’ve trusted vaccines my entire life.
My mother took me to some of the early MMR clinics back in 1971.
And here I am.
Still around.
Still talking.
Still wondering why this is even a debate.