Unwashed and Unvaccinated

I’m so glad that someone advised me to keep a separate diary of these events. At the time it sounded absurd and bureaucratic, but without it, I might have doubted my own memory.

A few months ago, I began feeling dizzy, panicked, and unlike myself. It was a strange kind of low—anxiety layered on exhaustion—and not the sort of thing I could write off as just lockdown fatigue. I’d been through rough patches before. This felt different. I rang my MS nurse, a woman I’d come to trust. She was calm, practical, and refreshingly free of fluff. She reminded me to keep using the symptom diary I’d started back on Tecfidera, even though I was now on Fingolimod. Blood tests were ordered to rule out anything obvious.

Not long after, I logged in to book my COVID vaccine—something I’d been meaning to do. Despite all the government messaging, the earliest appointment I could get was nearly two months away: 18 October. It was the first crack in the official narrative of urgency and preparedness.

On 17 September, I went to my doctor to have the necessary blood tests that patients on Fingolimod have regularly to check that the drug isn’t causing any potential harm to the system. Ten days later, the results were back: low lymphocyte count and abnormal liver function—both known side effects of Fingolimod. My MS nurse said she’d consult my neurologist and get back to me.

Meanwhile, I was deteriorating. The dizziness and sense of panic intensified. One afternoon in the supermarket, I had what felt like a full-blown anxiety attack—sharp headache, blurred vision, shallow breath. I could see nothing out of the eye affected by optic neuritis and the good eye wasn’t much better. I ripped off my mask and clung to the trolley, gasping for air. Other shoppers glared behind their own masks at my exposed breathing passages in horror but I didn’t have the energy to care.

Back home, I cancelled my vaccine appointment. My immune system was clearly compromised. I wasn’t convinced it was the right time to throw a new substance into the mix.

A few days later, my nurse rang again. My neurologist had seen my blood test results but wanted me to stay on the Fingolimod and retest in a month. I wasn’t thrilled—my symptoms were clearly getting worse—but I agreed to wait.

On 14 October, I had the follow-up bloods. I checked the results myself online: my lymphocyte count had dropped even further. I emailed my MS nurse. She replied that she’d booked me in for an appointment in two weeks.

Then came a message from my GP: “Blood tests OK. Mild liver function abnormality—likely due to alcohol use.”

I stared at the screen, stunned. It was clear he hadn’t read a single specialist report. He hadn’t factored in the known risks of the drug I was on. He’d gone straight to a lazy assumption that I was drinking too much. Why did he think I was coming in for these blood tests—just to check that my excessive alcohol consumption wasn’t interfering with my liver function? It felt offensive and bizarre.

At my next appointment with my nurse, I told her what he’d said. She was diplomatic but unimpressed, saying it was unwise to overlook specialist notes and pin things on alcohol without evidence. I appreciated her discretion.

By now, vaccine mandates were in full swing. No jab, no job. No pass, no entry. The narrative had shifted from public health to something more punishing. Even with a compromised immune system, there was no room for nuance.

I tried phoning the COVID Healthline to ask about exemption criteria. The advice from someone who sounded as though they were even based in New Zealand, was predictable: you need to get vaccinated anyway. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was speaking to someone who had been instructed to parrot the same generic advice to everyone, regardless of their individual circumstances. It was all about “getting the numbers up”. Just get vaccinated so you can wave around a certificate that holds no real meaning. Not a particularly honest approach to my mind, but at least the country could “meet the KPIs,” as it were.

So I wrote to my GP:

Fingolimod has lowered my lymphocyte count to the point where the vaccine is unlikely to work. I stopped taking it on 21 October. It’ll be two months before it’s out of my system. Please consider this in light of the exemption criteria.

His response?

“We are not involved in the exemption process. Patients on Fingolimod can safely receive the Pfizer vaccine and require a third dose for primary immunisation.”

He obviously hadn’t read a word of my email, my medical file (which would’ve shown I wasn’t taking Fingolimod anymore), or any of the letters from my neurologist. I considered lodging a complaint with the medical council, but decided against it. The medical council would likely not uphold or take seriously any complaint from a dirty, unvaccinated nobody against a doctor following the official narrative that, according to the NZ Immunisation Advisory Centre, “There’s virtually no medical reason a person cannot have the Pfizer Covid vaccine.” In the eyes of the system, the fact that my lymphocyte levels were so low that the vaccine would be ineffective anyway, carried less weight than a government slogan.

Thankfully, another GP in the practice had read my file. She helped with the exemption paperwork, and I eventually received a letter from Ashley Bloomfield granting me a temporary exemption. I was also granted a mask exemption after explaining that wearing one made me feel faint and short of breath. When the exemptions came through, I didn’t feel vindicated—just relieved. And a bit bitter. Why was it so hard to be heard?

There are vaccine incentives everywhere at the moment—ice cream, KFC, supermarket vouchers, even “Vaxathons” with live music and food trucks. The pressure is relentless: Do it for the team of five million. But I’m not just questioning the science—I’m questioning the strategy. This heavy-handed, one-size-fits-all mandate doesn’t feel right. And clearly, I’m not alone. People who don’t get the Covid vaccination are losing their jobs.

The Fingolimod should finally be out of my system by Christmas. I’ll make a decision then about what to do. By that point, AstraZeneca might be available in New Zealand. It’s a more traditional vaccine, which gives me a bit more confidence. I still have serious reservations about Pfizer—especially after reading government campaigns explaining how mRNA vaccines teach your body to make the spike protein. Given my already confused immune system, that makes me very wary.

As Dragons’ Den would say: For those reasons, I’m out.
At least for now.

Yes, I could get the vaccine and proudly wave around a certificate that holds no real meaning—something that says I’m “safe” when I know my immune system likely won’t produce a response. But I’d rather have it when it might actually be effective—not just “for show,” and not just so I can board a plane or go to a rock concert (which I’m unlikely to do anyway). That, to me, feels like the more honest thing to do.