Woulda, coulda, shoulda

pro·cras·ti·na·tion (prō-kras-tə-ˈnā-shən) noun: the act of putting off intentionally the doing of something that should be done

It would have been so simple: I could have picked up the kids up from school. Headed to any of the numerous clinics in town. Ignored Zoë and her terrified protests. Paid the nominal fee and fill out the paperwork. Endured the tears and drama. Then headed out for ice cream, content in the knowledge that the kids were more than likely protected from influenza for the year.

Yeah, it should have been so simple. Too bad I didn't do it. If I had, maybe Zach would be outside enjoying our current blue skies and record temperatures in the 80s. Instead, he's spent the last couple days in bed, miserable, with a 103-degree fever. That'll teach me to procrastinate, hunh? Only problem is, Zach's paying the price for my "putting off intentionally the doing of something that should (have) be(en) done." And I'm feeling pretty guilty about it.

Once upon a time, I thought flu shots were for the elderly and the frail. But then I had a nasty case of it myself in late 2004, with complications and bronchitis that lasted for months. Zoë had it, too, meaning I had to care for her while sick. Doing so was such an ordeal that I vowed we'd all get annual flu shots going forward, no matter what.

And so we did, except for 2006, when Zoë missed two and a half weeks of school and left her teacher with just five healthy five students in class (though the local paper got it wrong). Again, we’d learned our lesson, and we dutifully lined up for shots last year—and made it through winter unscathed.

This year, I got vaccinated at the grocery store completely unplanned. Kelly did the same at an airport. Our pediatrician doesn't do flu shots, and this year, the clinic where we took the kids last year wasn’t vaccinating kids. So, weeks began to pass, and every time I thought about the subject, either there was something more pressing needing my attention or Zoë put up such a stink, so I put if off.

But then my bluff got called. Zach came home last Thursday with a runny nose and sore throat, and he spent the weekend taking it easy. By Monday, we were convinced that he was getting better. But when I picked him up Wednesday, he looked like death warmed over. And by nightfall, it was obvious that not getting vaccinated had done him in.

Yesterday afternoon, Zach actually asked to go to the doctor, so I obliged. Within seconds, we had confirmation that yep, he had the flu. The good news was that since we'd caught it in the first 24 hours, there was a "silver bullet" that might help. The bad news, as I was soon to learn, was that said silver bullet—a drug called Tamiflu—would run $88 even after our insurance was applied. Don’t think that as I paid, I wasn’t comparing that in my mind to the cost of a flu shot. I was.

There was more bad news—that Tamiflu's side effects include nausea and vomiting—which neither the doctor nor pharmacist mentioned. I learned this before dawn, when I woke to the sound of Zach losing the liquids I’d so carefully been nursing into him. But after half a dozen bedroom to bathroom sprints, Zach miraculously started feeling much better, just like the doctor had promised.

So, if we can keep the girls from catching this, we’ll have gotten off pretty easily. And if we can, I know where we'll be next Tuesday afternoon: at church—Redding First Church of the Nazarene, to be precise. See, they're having a flu vaccination clinic that day, and while I may be a procrastinator, I'm not stupid. And Zoë can protest all she wants. Because this time, I'm not listening.