The Long Way Home 8.21.26

Vaccines, Oval Office "Experts," and the Benefits of Getting Old

The other day, I said to the Bohunk, “At least that’s one reason why it’s good to be old.” We had just watched a bit of a “press performance” from the White House featuring two noted medical experts named Trump and Kennedy.  

We raised four kids after 1974, and each one received the MMR vaccine at some point, along with others that the good pediatricians at Oxboro Clinic in Bloomington recommended. Although I’ve always been skeptical, I had the utmost faith in those doctors and the overseers of the medical profession in state and federal government. A vaccine had never injured me and seems to have kept some nasty viruses at bay. 

The MMR is also known as the Measles, Mumps, and Rubella vaccine. In 1963, the vaccine was approved for Measles. In 1967, another was approved for Mumps. In 1969, the Rubella vaccine was approved—three vaccines and three jabs to keep kids safe. 

Then, in 1971, the drug giant Merck combined the three into the MMR, reducing the number of jabs from three to one. Anyone who has raised kids knows that it is hard enough to get kids to sit still and quiet for one jab, so combining the three was a no-brainer.

The noted medical experts in the Oval Office had just issued a unilateral “executive” order to upend MMR vaccine recommendations, separating them into three vaccines to be injected in three separate clinic visits. They never did say why three shots instead of one made sense, although there was some far-fetched kvetching about the massive quantity of liquid injected with the MMR vaccine. I don’t think either of these experts has actually witnessed an MMR injection.

My comment was that one benefit of old age is not having to worry about finding time off work to drag a toddler to the doctor’s office three times instead of one and face the anguished cries of our children about something that didn’t have to be. Plus I’m just fed up with all the anti-vaccine crap that makes misery for overstressed parents, health care providers, and well-meaning bureaucrats. 

Common sense and capable leadership make it clear to anyone willing to crack open their mind that recommending that a drug combination that has been in use for more than half a century be carved up without any evidence that it is harmful is unfathomable nonsense.

There are other benefits to getting old. Accepting old age means that you stop obsessing about the color of your hair, the brightness of your smile, or the style of your clothes. 

I turned 50 when we lived in Las Vegas, where my regular barber was a Chicago Italian, excellent at cutting hair and keeping to a schedule. On the rare occasion I was running late for an appointment, late by a minute or two, my phone would ring as I pulled into the parking lot. I’d answer the phone and hear, “This is Joe, where are you?” 

One day, while finishing his handiwork, he said, “You know, you’re starting to get some gray in here. I can take care of that for you.”

I said, “Joe, I’m a grandpa. Who do I need to impress? I couldn’t care less about gray hair.”

Surprisingly, one of the liberating aspects of growing older is the sharp decline in the desire to be a people pleaser. I no longer need to compete for business, impress anybody, or maintain a social facade. As every day goes by, I find myself less tolerant of BS, and more willing to speak whatever my age-addled mind is thinking.

Something younger folks, and those who want to fit in with the young, don’t understand is that we old ones have a deep, historical perspective on everything from government and war to getting five-year-olds the MMR vaccine. 

Having lived through various economic cycles, the tragic and the exuberant, I remember much of what was and am aware of the impermanence of either. I’ve seen political upheaval, social change, and the normal crises of life and recognize that most "unprecedented" panics are rarely unprecedented.

Like most oldtimers, I tend to get rid of or minimize negative, draining relationships. I cherish people who present genuine warmth and value. 

Working in its eighth decade, my mind tends to forget too much information. Names are vaporous. Instructions from the Bohunk, and even my daily itinerary, leave only bare traces of memory that need refreshing statements like, “I told you this morning what we are having for supper.”  Doing a podcast with Grand Marais journalist Joe Friedrichs, I’d regularly find my occasional monologues interrupted by a mind that resembles my dog’s when she sees a squirrel. Sensing I was lost in the fog, Joe would jump in and save the day.

If nothing else, getting older means nobody owns my schedule but me. I’m done sprinting toward the next milestone or obsessing over a bucket list.