One of the more exciting things about turning sixty was qualifying for a free Shingles vaccine! I have feared getting Shingles for several decades—ever since my neighbor got them and had to endure months of lying naked on her bed unable to withstand the pain of anything touching her skin. 

I missed getting chicken pox as a child and felt a bit cheated.  I had mumps in the first grade; measles in second, but third grade came and went with no medically induced vacation. Elementary became junior high and no one mentioned sleeping over to catch chicken pox anymore; I forgot all about that particular virus.

One Saturday night in the Fall of my senior year of college, my two apartment mates left to be with their respective fiancés. Feeling extremely tired, I was content to relax in front of the TV.  I dozed off a while, awoke and thought I would get a nice hot bath.  When I got out of the tub and caught my reflection in the mirror on the back of the door, I screamed!  I was covered with red marks.  I toweled off, got into pajamas and crawled into bed hoping somehow it would all be gone in the morning.  Not so—each red dot had spawned a few more overnight and now there was little space between dots.  I called my cousin Rosemary, who lived near the college, to listen to my symptoms. She checked her baby book and concluded that I may have Smallpox!   “I will bring you some lunch and leave it outside the door. With two small kids I can’t risk coming inside.” I told her I understood.

I figured I would stop at the campus infirmary on my way to church.  The nurse immediately put me in a separate room, peeked under my shirt and diagnosed Chicken Pox. She said I needed to arrange to leave the campus immediately and proceeded to phone my parents.  “Skip Church and wait in your apartment for your parents to make the (three-and-a-half-hour) drive.  When the car pulled up, my mother was the sole occupant. “Where’s Dad—you’ve never driven this alone.” “Well, we didn’t want to tell you, Honey, but your dad fell at work and is home with a concussion. He’s not allowed to drive yet.”

 On the way, I asked my mother how old she was when she got chicken pox. “I’ve never had chicken pox and your dad (being one of 12 children) has no idea what he may have had.” Great—now that the campus was shielded from me, I would only be jeopardizing my parents!

Almost halfway home, we heard a loud popping sound, and the car began to veer to the right. My mother gripped the steering wheel and guided the car to a stop on the side of the Interstate.  A tire had blown out and there we were—at dusk, far from an exit, and decades before cell phones.  Our choices were limited—we would unearth the spare tire and hope for some kind traveler to have pity on us.  So, with my temperature rising on a cold November evening, I helped my mother unload my typewriter and all the rest of the trunk. Some items went to the back seat and others we lined up along the berm. Then my mom insisted that I get back into the car—both for my health and because anyone seeing my bright red rash might accelerate instead.  Car after car whizzed by and at last, one stopped. The gentleman offered to exit the interstate and go to a gas station to summon a tow truck. We thanked him and in about twenty minutes, we had the help we needed. My mother asked the driver if we could ride in the car being towed. “Absolutely not!” Mom whispered that I should pull up my collar, pull down my hat and climb into his truck. 

At the gas station, the fellow let her use their phone to call my father to explain the delay. I spent the next three weeks getting through the second worst case of chicken pox our family physician had ever seen.  My parents were spared by keeping their distance and the Grace of God. Since only those who have had chicken pox can get Shingles, I began that milestone sixtieth birthday with a shot in the arm and a song in my heart:

Happy Birthday to me,

With this shot I am free,

Now I shan’t get the Shingles,

Happy Birthday to me!

Lilly Kauffman is a non-fiction writer who was privileged to work as both a librarian and a teacher.  Her essays, whether serious or humorous, capture the experiences that allow us to laugh and grieve. Family and faith inform her writings. She is currently working on several book projects: A Mother Grieves in Ink, Ampersand, and Lil Letters.