So I woke up this morning. You know, it’s what you do in the morning. Then, suddenly, I remembered and gasped. I quickly closed my eyes again. Very tightly. And then I slowly opened my eyes and peered around my room. It was Thursday.  I couldn’t be as lucky to wish that November 2nd had just disappeared from the calendar. Nope. And yes, indeed, I went to bed last night praying to every higher power I knew (and some that I chose to create) to erase this Thursday from the calendar. Nope. Didn’t work.

Today was the big day. The day of The Shot. The day my cherished hopes and dreams were to be shattered by reality.

I woke up. As in, I got out of bed, since I was technically already awake. I stuffed my backpack and went downstairs for breakfast. The Cookie Crisp cereal lacked its usual sweetness, though: it beckoned the evil of the day to be born. I turned to my roomie and told her that I might skip school today. And when she questioned why, with a friendly reminder about the price tag on the glorious Penn education, I told her about The Shot. She laughed. Or maybe, I’ll just be absent during The Shot, I suggested. She laughed some more. I wasn’t laughing, so she couldn’t be laughing with me, I reasoned. Then...she must be laughing at me. “They’re not going to come get you for that,” she told me, “you have to go on your own,” she reminded my freshman mind... “Goodness, it’s just a Shot!”

Just a Shot. Right... that’s what they’ve all been saying. They weren’t the victims-to-be of puncture.  So I went to class, plotting on how I could navigate around this Shot situation, in order to remove my registration hold for spring semester. And eureka – I had the perfect solution! The one reason that seems to be able to justify any act in our world – religion!

A grin spread over my face. A really wide grin... It would simply be against my religious beliefs to have a Shot, I would claim. I could be like the Amish. Though I don’t think I could get away with that image, I wear too much pink. So I would create my own religion. The Sudh-o religion, pronounced pseud-o. So I told my friend about my bright idea. And my friend suggested that I might want to change the name of this religion for it to carry more weight and credibility to my argument. I agreed. But my position remained.

It would be against the postulates of my beliefs, my will as a human being, and my basic rights to happiness and liberty, to have a needle plunged into my skin – to be vaccinated against chicken pox.

So I perused through the Penn Student Health website to see what was necessary for a religion-related waiver for a vaccine. Hey, if any other student could refuse to be vaccinated due to the implications of his religion, why couldn’t I? One cannot be refused to an institution, public or private, because of her personal beliefs, correct?  (Oh, the beauty of America...)

So a waiver was needed. A sheet of paper, signed by an authority of said religion, such as a priest or a rabbi, to affirm that the student will not to be vaccinated due to religious beliefs. My, oh my, my eyes widened with surprise when I read this.  I was shocked and appalled. Is this to say that an individual cannot follow a system of belief if it is not affirmed, or rather confirmed, by another person? Is this not infringing upon my rights as an individual, the right to religious freedom? Another must follow my individual belief for it to be deemed valid?!  Is this not discrimination against a religiously-affiliated minority? (In this case, the Sudh-o religion followers...)   Dear Dr. Andy Coopersmith, my academic advisor suggested that maybe, you know, just maybe, this policy was set up to impede the acts of other devious students like myself.  Hmmm... I thought... maybe Penn could be sue-d (ha!) for religious persecution! Another grin flashed across my face.

So the time neared. I tried changing the time on my watch, but that really didn’t change the ticking of every other clock on campus, let alone the nation (or even my timezone). It was almost 2:30 p.m. The time of the Appointment. I really had no choice but to go, in order to enroll for spring semester. I walked from the broken Button to the tall Penn Tower, crunching every dry leaf in my path.

I arrived at the immunization office, and I sat and waited, and then came the moment we’ve all not been waiting for: they called my name. 

I considered claiming a name change for an instantaneous moment.  Then I wouldn’t really be Sudha Meghan. So I wouldn’t have to go.  Obviously, that didn’t click too well. I went into the little office. I don’t know how I got there from the seating area, but I’m thinking the movement of my legs had something to do with it.  Four walls, no windows, barely a vent. I turned my head, I craned my neck, I widened my eyes to spot the possible exits in the small room. The door was it. And it was slowly closed, creaking shut, as the assistant came in to accompany the Shot Giver. She was so mean. So mean. I don’t know why her name tag didn’t read Meanie Head. The assistant was much nicer. He was apparently a med student, helping out in the office in his spare time.

I turned toward them, and began my plea for freedom. If not for the spring registration hold, I would have insisted for hours on end. I told them about my recent conversion to a new religion.  (It would have to be converting, because as a friend had kindly reminded me earlier, one would be forced to question how I had already had a bazillion other vaccines if it was unacceptable by my religion... )  Then I thought about it some more. I could simply not take classes spring semester . And re-matriculate into the university for fall, as a freshman again. And do this for 3 more years. Take classes during fall semesters only, when they don’t ensure that immunization requirements are met... And reapply for Penn admission each year... heh heh, it would be 8 years before I graduated with an undergrad degree... All just to avoid one vaccine.  I wasn’t sure how dear Dr. Andy the Advisor would feel about that, though... let alone having to put up with me for double the time...  And then I heard the ring of my brother’s sweet voice... “opportunity cost of time!”

The Meanie Head lady just stared at me. I think her face was stuck in a frown, but even so, I’m pretty sure I saw the crease of a smile forming during some point of my speech. The assistant, on the other hand, was quite amused. So after 20 minutes of my religion plea, it was decided that I was to be poked. Shot. With a Shot. She gave me a piece of paper to write my name on and sign. And she waited. I was silent. I wrote my name but didn’t sign. She waited. “I said you have to sign here,” she ordered. “I know,” I answered. “Well...?” She said, obviously un-amused, and losing whatever little patience she had allotted for me. “Well...” I continued... “It says here that I sign after I have read the terms, conditions, and have been informed of the immunization I am about to receive... so I’m waiting to be informed...” She stared at me some more. Then after a moment, I think she had finished observing, that I too, like most other humans, had two eyes, a nose and a mouth on my face, and she opened her drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper about chicken pox and the vaccine. So I read it. Oh, I took my merry time, all right. I carefully allowed my mind to imbibe every syllable written on that two-sided, 9-point-font sheet.  I must admit I learned quite a lot about varicella (chicken pox) and the immunization.  There was a point when I had to refrain from pulling out a highlighter and a pen from my bag and take notes.  I am obviously not only the Queen of Procrastination, but the Queen of Time Killing.  I finally signed my name, slowly, perfectly etching each letter of my name with the pen onto the paper on the clipboard...dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s... Funny, because I don’t have any i’s or t’s in my name.

This was it. My heart skipped a beat; the adrenaline surged through my body.  “ALERT ALERT!!!” the adrenaline cried, signaling all nerves in my body. It was like how the US has terrorist alert levels. My body went from the blue calm degree of no danger, to the crimson red, elevated risk level.

I saw the needle surface from within a container on the Meanie Head’s desk. The tiny bottle of the vaccine was removed from the case and she stuck the needle into the bottle. Then she requested that I expose an arm to be victimized. Right or left?  I considered tossing a coin.  But would heads be left or heads be right?  I chose my left.

The left arm began to revolt! It was drafting a declaration to gain independence from my body for being subject to cruel and unusual treatment. But as is true in many cases, the bureaucracy involved in drafting this declaration led to a failure to meet the deadline.  The Left Arm Army was too slow to mobilize and commence a revolution. 

My left bicep was wiped with a cold tissue soaked in isopropyl alcohol. The sharp odor pervaded through my nose, into my mind, evoking the traumatic memories of past needles. Of being Shot. With a Shot. Those glorious childhood days, the days of kindergarten, adulterated by the infusion of forced doctor visits. To be poked. And the sad attempt on the part of the nurses to appease me with dull stickers and a lack of orange-flavored lollipops.

I turned to see Meanie Head preparing the needle. It was just like in Beethoven, when the vet squirts some of the vaccine in the needle into the air to see that it is working before attacking the innocent, bewildered dog. I saw the needle glint in the light. I squinched my eyes and turned away. This act made my body all the more frozen with fright. My fear gobbled away every ounce of bravery that struggled to survive.

I felt her hand touch my arm and brace it. I flinched in reflex. This only led the assistant to hold onto my shoulders to ensure that I didn’t move. I felt the bloody prick of the needle piercing the surface of my skin, surging through the tissue. And then the syringe was pressed, releasing the vaccine into my bloodstream. The fluids diffused into me. I had forgotten to breathe. I wanted to scream in pain, but only a whimper escaped from my mouth. The needle was removed. The pain was numbing.

And I got ready to leave.  To flee. Tears would have formed in the corners of my eyes but not in the presence of Meanie Head. She was nice enough to inform me that a second dose of the vaccine was needed, and I should schedule an appointment in 4 to 8 weeks.  I’m sorry, but I can only schedule torture in two month intervals.