I just finished a book.
It was about two young princes. They disappeared from the Tower of London during their uncle’s 15th-century reign.
The author’s team discovered a document from that time, in continental Europe. It may explain the fate of the princes.
The document, a 500-year-old letter, was illegible in parts.
Some information — names of the princes’ attendants, for example — was lost to history. And in England, no counterparts of this document exist, having been destroyed by the successor of the princes’ uncle.
I believe my immunization records are a kindred spirit to this document.
Recently, I needed proof of my vaccinations, like flu, COVID, and tetanus.
But also childhood immunizations, like polio, chickenpox, and the trio of diseases in the MMR vaccine.
I reached out to my doctor’s office. Since I was 12 years old, that office has been my medical provider.
But the records they produced — wow.
They were, um, wrong.
Comically wrong.
In perusing the records, I could see vaccinations within the last 10 years or so were accurate.
Sort of.
Ew. Like Willie’s kinda sorta boyfriend.
Flu and COVID were fine. But according to the records, I had tetanus boosters in both 2012 and 2019.
Except, no. No, I didn’t.
I had no need for a tetanus booster in 2012 because I had one in 2008. It’s why I asked for another in 2019.
Studying the records further, I noticed my childhood vaccines were also dated as 2012.
Let me be clear about something I really don’t want to be clear about.
I was not a child in 2012.
I was not a child in 2002.
I wasn’t even a child in 1992.
In fact, even in 1982, those vaccines would have been extraordinarily late.
Yeah. Make fun of me if you want.
I’m old enough that my childhood diary called our first VCR — direct quote here — “a miracle.”
I’m old enough to remember the audience wildly cheering when Michael J. Fox as Marty McFly removed his sunglasses after blowing himself into Doc Brown’s shelves with a single guitar riff.
I’m old enough that my childhood bedroom had a trendy hot pink shag rug.
“Maybe,” my husband said, “Moses has to finish carving your records in stone on the mountain.”
He’s only 18 months older.
But let’s be honest.
No one talks about Kevin Costner’s age when he’s having a dalliance with Piper Perabo on Yellowstone.
Also, his graying hair and rugged, outdoorsy look — it’s ageless.
My husband’s, I mean. Not Kevin Costner’s.
But yeah. Kevin Costner’s, too.
I contacted my doctor’s office, explained how very wrong my records appeared.
The best they could figure, when they moved to an electronic record, my data was entered incorrectly.
You don’t say.
This set my doctor’s office on a mission. A mission to locate my paper records.
I was not optimistic. My childhood medical records are as old as the Watergate tapes. And unless they, too, were tucked away at the National Archives, my records were likely lost to time.
Much like any English documents corresponding to that 15th-century letter found in continental Europe in that book about the missing princes.
A few days into the search, I had a phone call.
It was my doctor.
I love my doctor. He’s a few years out of his residency. He’s pleasant. Knowledgeable. Thorough, without going overboard.
And, as my husband says, likely to retire long after we’re dead.
Huh. He’s probably the last primary care doctor I’ll ever have.
That’s a sobering thought.
Can, um, can somebody pour me a drink? Contemplating my mortality over here.
The good news? They found my paper records.
The bad news?
“Back then,” my doctor said, records were written by hand.
I mean, computers back then took up entire rooms, so yeah.
Also, “back then?”
“Back then?”
Do we really have to say that?
Some of the data on my vaccine records was illegible, rendering the records useless.
Just like that 600-year-old letter about the missing princes.
Great. Cool. My medical records are so old, they’re on par with documents from the 15th century.
Love that.
The only way to prove my vaccine status was to draw my blood, measure for titers.
Which, my doctor and I agreed, we needed to do anyway.
See, I’m also so old, I actually had chickenpox.
I can’t even begin to fathom where the documentation of that could be.
Continental Europe, perhaps?
My brother was two years old at the time. When I erupted in those tell-tale lesions, Willie sat me beside my brother.
In his playpen.
Trapped, so he’d get chicken pox, too.
Always thinking, Willie.
Because I physically had chicken pox, that, too, required a titer to prove immunity.
Frustratingly, I’d had blood drawn just a week before this.
See, I needed my cholesterol checked.
Yes, I’m old enough for that, too.
Because if you were born in the waning years of eight tracks, cholesterol buildup is a real possibility.
And that just sucks.
