Vaccines require full courses and boosters to provide effective and lasting protection.

An incomplete vaccination schedule can leave individuals vulnerable to serious diseases.

Some causes of encephalitis, including measles and chickenpox are vaccine-preventable.

Real-life stories highlight the long-term impact of preventable brain infections.

One of the most effective tools we have in global health is vaccines. In my work, I have seen firsthand how devastating brain infections can be, not just in the acute phase, but in the months and years that follow.

Prevention is always better than cure, and in many cases of encephalitis, prevention is possible. However, there is a critical point that is often missed: starting a vaccination schedule is not enough. Just as we are advised to complete a full course of antibiotics to treat a bacterial infection, a full vaccine schedule provides full and lasting protection.

Why completing vaccination schedules matters

Vaccines do not usually provide full protection after a single dose. For many diseases, immunity builds over time—through a series of doses and, in some cases, boosters. The first dose begins the process, but subsequent doses strengthen and extend that protection.

We still hear from individuals and families who did not complete their schedules for particular vaccines and who assumed that partial vaccination was sufficient. Unfortunately, that gap in protection can leave individuals vulnerable and pose a risk to the wider community during an outbreak.

This is particularly important when we think about encephalitis. While not all causes are preventable, several are—including measles, Japanese encephalitis, varicella zoster (chickenpox), and tick-borne encephalitis. These are serious conditions that can lead to brain injury, long-term disability, or death.

Tick-borne encephalitis is a clear example. It is present across parts of Europe and Asia, and cases are being reported in new areas. There is a safe and effective vaccine available—but it requires a full course, in some cases boosters, to maintain protection. Missing doses can mean remaining at risk.

The reality of encephalitis is best understood through the experiences of those who have lived it. Gunilla’s story stayed with me, and it powerfully illustrates what is at stake.

A life changed: Gunilla’s story

I woke up in a room high up in the sky, disoriented and terrified. I didn’t know where I was. I could hear voices outside speaking what sounded like broken Swedish. I was convinced I had been kidnapped, caught up in something criminal. I had to escape.

I tried to get up, but my body wouldn’t move. Panic set in. Then the door opened, and a man walked in. He had kind eyes. Somehow, words came to me: I needed him to call the brain injury rehabilitation unit at Akademiska Hospital. He paused, then said gently, “But you are here. Only then did I realise—I was in hospital. I had been there for some time. But I didn’t yet understand why. Weeks earlier, my 14-year-old daughter had found me at home, lying in bed in a dark room. I had vomited and couldn’t respond. She called her father, who called an ambulance. By the time I reached the hospital, I couldn’t speak or walk. Tests revealed I had tick-borne encephalitis. I spent a month in intensive care. I have no memory of it—no memory of the ambulance, or of being critically ill. Altogether, I was in the hospital for nine months. I was paralysed. I couldn’t speak, eat, or even swallow my own saliva. Two weeks into rehabilitation, I contracted COVID-19. My medical notes later read: “We don’t think her body will survive both encephalitis and COVID.” But somehow, I did. I left the hospital in a wheelchair. The next two years were filled with rehabilitation. Slowly, I moved from a wheelchair to a walker. No one expected me to walk again—but over time, I managed short distances. Even now, more than four years later, walking is still a challenge. But the hardest part has not been physical recovery. It has been coming to terms with the “new me.” I can no longer live the active life I once loved. I can’t play tennis, ski, cycle, or even climb stairs easily. I fatigue quickly in busy environments. I struggle with speech. I need assistance. I cannot yet drive properly. Coming home as a different person triggered a deep personal crisis. I wanted to live—but I didn’t know how. I felt like a burden to my daughter, my partner, my family, and my friends. What I needed most was someone to talk to—a professional who could help me process what had happened. Eventually, my insurance funded trauma therapy. It made a profound difference. Returning to work has been like climbing Mount Everest. For a long time, I couldn’t even get there—no transport options suited my disabilities. After years of effort and an appeal, I finally secured support for door-to-door taxi transport. My rehabilitation doctor once told me, “You walk because you are you. You work because you are you.” I think she is right. Even now, new challenges arise. A later infection with Borrelia triggered my trauma. The fear of paralysis returned, along with severe nerve pain. I am still working through this. There is also the experience of how others see you. When I speak, people sometimes assume I am drunk or not intelligent. When I use a wheelchair or walker, they speak to the person next to me instead of to me. It is deeply degrading. Yet I continue. I set goals: to walk unaided for an hour, to cycle, to swim, to ski again—even in small ways. Progress is slow, but it is progress.

I tried to get up, but my body wouldn’t move. Panic set in. Then the door opened, and a man walked in. He had kind eyes. Somehow, words came to me: I needed him to call the brain injury rehabilitation unit at Akademiska Hospital. He paused, then said gently, “But you are here. Only then did I realise—I was in hospital. I had been there for some time. But I didn’t yet understand why.

Weeks earlier, my 14-year-old daughter had found me at home, lying in bed in a dark room. I had vomited and couldn’t respond. She called her father, who called an ambulance. By the time I reached the hospital, I couldn’t speak or walk.

Tests revealed I had tick-borne encephalitis. I spent a month in intensive care. I have no memory of it—no memory of the ambulance, or of being critically ill. Altogether, I was in the hospital for nine months. I was paralysed. I couldn’t speak, eat, or even swallow my own saliva.

Two weeks into rehabilitation, I contracted COVID-19. My medical notes later read: “We don’t think her body will survive both encephalitis and COVID.” But somehow, I did.

I left the hospital in a wheelchair. The next two years were filled with rehabilitation. Slowly, I moved from a wheelchair to a walker. No one expected me to walk again—but over time, I managed short distances. Even now, more than four years later, walking is still a challenge. But the hardest part has not been physical recovery. It has been coming to terms with the “new me.” I can no longer live the active life I once loved. I can’t play tennis, ski, cycle, or even climb stairs easily. I fatigue quickly in busy environments. I struggle with speech. I need assistance. I cannot yet drive properly.

Coming home as a different person triggered a deep personal crisis. I wanted to live—but I didn’t know how. I felt like a burden to my daughter, my partner, my family, and my friends. What I needed most was someone to talk to—a professional who could help me process what had happened. Eventually, my insurance funded trauma therapy. It made a profound difference.

Returning to work has been like climbing Mount Everest. For a long time, I couldn’t even get there—no transport options suited my disabilities. After years of effort and an appeal, I finally secured support for door-to-door taxi transport.

My rehabilitation doctor once told me, “You walk because you are you. You work because you are you.” I think she is right. Even now, new challenges arise. A later infection with Borrelia triggered my trauma. The fear of paralysis returned, along with severe nerve pain. I am still working through this.

There is also the experience of how others see you. When I speak, people sometimes assume I am drunk or not intelligent. When I use a wheelchair or walker, they speak to the person next to me instead of to me. It is deeply degrading.

Yet I continue. I set goals: to walk unaided for an hour, to cycle, to swim, to ski again—even in small ways. Progress is slow, but it is progress.

The preventable reality

Stories like Gunilla’s are difficult to read—but they are important to share. Across the world, thousands of people are affected by encephalitis every year, and many are left with long-term consequences that affect every aspect of their lives.

What makes this even more difficult is that some of these cases could be prevented. Vaccination cannot prevent all encephalitis, but it can significantly reduce the risk of several serious causes. When vaccination schedules are not completed, that protection may never fully develop.

The message is simple:

* Be aware of vaccine-preventable causes of encephalitis

* Start and complete every recommended vaccination schedule

* Keep up to date with booster doses where advised

Where prevention is possible, we must take it.

There was a problem adding your email address. Please try again.

By submitting your information you agree to the Psychology Today Terms & Conditions and Privacy Policy

© Psychology Today