A daughter of doctors and a past candy-striper, I've grown up accustomed to hospitals. So why, in this particular hospital waiting room, did I feel so uncomfortable?

Maybe it was the fact that when I handed the nurse my chart and forms at the triage station she took a long, interested look at me and said, "Oh...it will be just a minute. ... I'll have to put a special order in for this."

Maybe it was fact that I was sent to the exotic travel medicine department instead of the normal injection room.

In any case, I knew I wasn't going to be treated like the group of patients around me, which consisted mostly of people in suits on their lunch breaks waiting for tetanus boosters before they went to Malaysia on business.

But there I sat in my jeans, T-shirt and flats, healthy and waiting to prevent a disease that affects hundreds of times more individuals than tetanus.

At the age of 22, well within prescribed age range for the treatment, I was waiting for my first injection of Gardasil—the human papillomavirus (HPV) vaccine.

Approximately 20 million people are currently infected with HPV, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC). About three out of four people have HPV at some point in their lives. By age 50, at least 80 percent of women will have acquired the HPV infection. About 6.2 million Americans get a new HPV infection each year.

These numbers are meant both to scare and to comfort. They scare because of the fact that HPV can cause cervical cancer — the second leading cause of cancer deaths among women. And comfort comes with the knowledge that because of the virus' widespread nature, scientists have aggressively sought and eventually found a vaccine that prevents the cancer-causing strains.

"Maureen Trantham," the nurse finally called after a near-unbearable 45-minute wait. "They're ready for you."

"They're ready for me? Doesn't it only take one person to give an injection?" I thought.

I followed a nurse down a long hallway past the travel medicine rooms to one that was overwhelmed by beds with curtains around them. Reminiscent of a high school human sexuality textbook, there was a poster graphically depicting genital warts on the wall.

"Nice," I thought. Isn't this why I'm here in the first place? Because I'm not going to get STDs? Shouldn't this be plastered somewhere more appropriate, like a dorm room or a nightclub bathroom?

Information from Planned Parenthood said, "Although most HPV infections go away within eight to 13 months with no symptoms, some will not. HPV infections that do not go away can 'hide' in the body for years and not be detected. At the moment, there is no test approved to detect HPV in men." That's why it is impossible to determine exactly when individuals became infected, how long they've been infected, or who passed the infection to them.

Terrifying? The federal government seems to think so. That's why it has progressively stigmatized the disease and its new preventative vaccine, though many of the nation's most ideal housewives have probably had the virus. Something about its status as an STD — although scientists are now finding it can be acquired just as easily through skin-to-skin contact — doesn't quite gel with the message of mass abstinence.

Though the FDA approved the vaccine for girls as young as nine and advocated for the compulsory vaccination of females between the ages of 13 and 26, many conservatives and religious figures influential to the Bush administration have rallied against the plan purely because HPV is considered an STD.

"We can prevent it by the best public health method, and that's not having sex before marriage," Linda Klepacki of Focus on the Family told The New York Times earlier this year.

Right. I wonder if Linda has even bothered to be tested. Chances are, despite her "focus on the family," she's in the same bed as the rest of us.

With the thin curtain around my bed closed, I could easily hear the nurses outside talking about the vaccine.

"Have you ever given one of these before?" one said. "I thought it was still in trials," another said. "Here, I gave one to a girl last week," still another said, "It's different than other shots — it bounces back a little when it's complete."

With their nervous smiles, they walked into my room. By this time, I was nearing a panic attack.

"These ladies are just, uh, going to observe your vaccination," the nurse said. "It's just that we've never seen one before and, well, can you let us know how it feels?"

I could have told them how it feels to be treated like a pariah in an institution that is full of truly chronically sick individuals. I could have told them that even though it was recommended by my physician, as to all her young female patients, to receive this vaccine months ago, I waited based on my fear of this exact type of treatment. I could have told them that, as nurses, they should be aware of the approval of a vaccination that may soon be mandatory for all young American girls regardless of their sexual history.

Poke. Ouch. No "bounce back."

"It felt fine. It doesn't really hurt," I said. "I come back in two months, right?"

Hopefully, they'll be able to tell the next girl that it feels fine. And hopefully, for the millions of women with or at risk for HPV, the stigma I felt in the waiting room won't be around much longer.

Reach columnist Maureen Trantham at maureentrantham@thedaily.washington.edu.