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I got my first shot when I was five.
I mean, it wasn’t my first, but it was the first one that I was old enough to remember and resent. The office was bright, my doctor was telling bad jokes, and then she said she’d give me a lollipop before I left. Even at the time I thought that was suspicious (especially because my Dad had just read “Hansel and Gretel” to me a few days earlier). Then she told me to look at my mom, who kept making faces in hopes that I’d stare in her direction, and not see the doctor rummaging through her drawer of childhood torture devices.
It didn’t work.
Is pill splitting a risky practice or smart business?