By David C. Holzman
I didn’t think it was a big deal. I’d stepped on a shell in Wellfleet Harbor, and it had sliced into my foot, and drawn blood. Heck, I didn’t even think tetanus bacteria hung out in salt water — they like soil, especially if the icing atop its cake is manure. But my anguished Jewish mother was all “get over to AIM [the local health clinic] right away, before lockjaw has a chance to set in.”
Of course, the power of the Jewish Mother to inflict fear and guilt is legendary. So I ultimately hauled my derriere over to AIM. But there was a problem.
I had first learned I was allergic to tetanus shots when I was 17 — two decades earlier. I don’t remember what I’d stepped on, but I’d ended up having to go back to AIM a couple of hours after the tetanus shot, so that they could check out the hives that had sprouted from feet to nether regions to scalp. While I was in no immediate danger, I was advised that the specter of anaphylactic shock loomed over any future tetanus shots.
But now at AIM once again, I wasn’t anticipating a problem because a year after the hives, I’d stepped on something on a trip in England. But the nice doctor who had given me that injection swore that he’d quit the profession if the preventive shot he’d given me with the tetanus shot failed to protect me from hives, or any other reaction.
So I figured the docs at AIM would also know what to give me to prevent a reaction. But instead, they gave me some gobbledygook about how I should really wait until I got home — which was Washington, D.C. at the time — and let my own doc give me the shot. But the docs at Group Health, my then-HMO, were equally stymied by my predicament. Continue reading