Fatherhood

Autism Roulette

To vaccinate or not to vaccinate is the parental question of our time.

By: Ben Hewitt; Photograph: Guido Vitti
Published: October 2008   [ Updated: Jan 5, 2009 - 1:24:31 PM ]

The needle looked as big as a missile.

It seems unlikely it was any bigger than the hundreds of other needles stashed in our pediatrician's office, but in such close proximity to my infant son's meaty thigh, it looked menacing.

The nurse chatted away as she slipped the needle into a bottle of clear liquid and pulled back on the plunger. I could hear her talking—"How about this weather... What a sweetie... Might be a bit restless tonight... My boy just started college... It goes so fast"—but I wasn't listening. My eyes moved from the needle to my son. Finlay was curled into my wife Penny's lap, her arms wrapped around him, her long blond hair flowing around his little head and covering one sky-blue eye.

Fin was 6 months old. He was our first child. In this doctor's office in St. Johnsbury, Vermont, he was about to be vaccinated against five diseases, some of which have pretty much disappeared from America. As the needle pricked his flesh, a look of pained confusion hijacked his face. I was afraid too.

With your first kid, you are scared. You are scared he's going to choke on a grape. You are scared he's going to tumble down the stairs. You are scared his fever is going to spike to 109 and scramble his brain. You are scared he's going to catch an incurable disease and waste away before your eyes. That's why we vaccinated Fin. Fear. I'd also heard about the controversy over childhood vaccines and their purported link to autism, and that worried us as well. Like I said, we were scared.

A couple more pinpricks and we were done. Fin didn't even cry. He was scheduled for 31 more injections before his fifth birthday, as mandated by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention's schedule.

My son didn't have an immediate reaction to his vaccinations, at least not that we could see. He wasn't restless, he didn't get a fever, his eyes didn't roll back in his head, his tongue didn't fork. I felt silly for having worried at all. In fact, Fin's development seemed to be taking the fast track. His first word—duck—came at 8 months, and by his first birthday, he was speaking in sentences. His diction was nearly perfect; there was none of the usual baby babble. Everyone understood him, and he reveled in being understood. He was gregarious and charming. Our friends started calling him Funlay.