I got my measles shot back in 1964, back when people still trusted medical science and didn’t take health advice from sweaty conspiracy theorists livestreaming from their car. But now, with measles making its triumphant comeback in Texas—because history isn’t just repeating itself, it’s staging a full-blown Vegas residency—my doctor wants proof that my immunity is still holding up. So off I went to get my blood drawn.
As the nurse cinched the tourniquet around my arm, she casually rattled off a list of diseases clawing their way back from the medical graveyard: “Oh yeah, everything’s coming back—measles, tuberculosis, mumps, whooping cough.” Fantastic. We used to relegate these horrors to history books, but apparently, we’re now living in the age of Plague Nostalgia, where the anti-science crowd rejects vaccines but will happily chug raw milk like it’s a magic elixir and cure their imaginary parasites with oregano oil. Welcome to modern America: a nation where sniffing essential oils is considered cutting-edge disease prevention and a YouTuber with a GED can convince millions that the polio vaccine is a government psyop.
I get it, though. I really do. The internet makes it easy to cosplay as an expert. I myself recently became a self-taught emergency room doctor—not through years of grueling medical training, mind you, but by watching Noah Wyle command the chaos of The Pitt. Ten episodes in, and I was so immersed in this high-octane Pittsburgh ER drama that I began to believe I could handle a mass casualty event with nothing but a Swiss Army knife and a strong cup of coffee. Through Wyle’s weary, seen-it-all eyes, I absorbed the fine art of managing crises, mentoring frazzled interns, suppressing the entirely human urge to faint at the sight of flayed flesh, and—most importantly—barking orders with just the right mix of exhaustion and authority.
By the time the season finale rolled around, I wasn’t just watching The Pitt—I was The Pitt. At this point, if someone collapsed in front of me, I was convinced I could MacGyver an intubation using a drinking straw and a ballpoint pen. Never mind that I can’t handle a paper cut without Googling “how much blood loss before hospital.” Medical school takes a decade, sure, but I had clocked at least ten hours of Noah Wyle boot camp, and I was feeling dangerously confident. Step aside, real doctors—I’ve got this.
This happens a lot when I watch a show I like. I become the main character, a metamorphosis, or Cinemorphosis, if you will.
Of course, once the credits rolled and I returned to my mortal state, I had to admit that I probably shouldn’t be allowed within ten feet of an actual medical emergency. I checked my email, saw that my lab results were in, and—miracle of miracles—my measles immunity was still intact. Looks like I get to live another day, at least until the next preventable disease makes its grand return.
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