In the early 90s I worked with a woman who smelled like patchouli. She wore no make-up and Birkenstocks, flowing clothes that were a little too large, and she never got sick. She was always at the office, sharing computer code, herbal tea, and wisdom with a smile. One day I expressed my irritation at a clearly ill co-worker, hacking and dripping his disease from cube to cube. “He shouldn’t be here,” I said. “I don’t want to get sick.”

“Our immune system is our own responsibility,” said my hippie friend.

Celebrity doctors tell us to boost our immune systems with specific foods, wash our hands often and keep them away from our faces. My sons hear frequently and frantically from me, “Don’t touch your face. Every kid who coughed or sneezed into their hand, or picked their nose, or pulled their gum out of their mouths with their fingers, then grabbed the door handle, that you then grabbed, touches your face right along with you.” I excel at dramatic/traumatic parenting.

Recently, on an afternoon skiing, a ski school instructor with an odd number of young students asked if I’d ride up with one child. The kids were too small and inexperienced to get on and off the lift by themselves. “Sure!” I said.

The lift operator slowed the chairlift; I helped 6-year-old Jasmine hop onto the seat, pulled her close to me, and lowered the safety bar. Little kids in slippery snow pants, whose fannies don’t quite sit all the way back in the chair give me visceral chills.

On our ride up, Jasmine enjoyed talking and told me all about her family. On older sister had given her the name “Jasmine”, she loved her 9-month old baby brother, and her mom was a very good skier.

But, I heard nothing after learning that her 3-year-old brother was home throwing up, and that Jasmine herself had been to the doctor that very morning (she showed me the sticker). Fortunately, she didn’t have the flu–like her little brother did–and she tested negative for strep throat. But the reason for the diarrhea was still a mystery.

“How are you feeling now?” I asked Jasmine, leaning away, wishing I’d added immune system boosting mushrooms and onions to my eggs earlier.

“My tummy still hurts, but Mom gave me medicine to stop the diarrhea,” she said as she licked the slow-moving flow coming from her nose that ironically resembled hand sanitizer.

I examined Jasmine’s eyes through her tinted goggles. They appeared bright and crust-free. I reminded myself that I was wearing mittens, my face was covered with a fleece mask and goggles, and that we were outdoors in the fresh mountain air. I was practically in a HAZMAT suit.

The threat of a flu-carrying child wasn’t enough for me to loosen my hold on Jasmine, even when her little snotty nose rubbed against my jacket. But, I was thankful when it was time for us to unload from the chair.

I don’t know if my immune system truly received a direct hit from the sweet–but likely contagious–little girl, but I bet her ski instructor had a surprise or two in the days following.

There was a chaotic pass-off, the instructor quickly thanked me, and then was immediately focused on organizing his class. I wanted to warn him before I skied away. “Jasmine’s got the flu at her house,” then I tried to pass along my hippie friend’s words with a smile, “Our immune system is our own responsibility.”

He looked confused.

“Just don’t touch your face.”

Chrisy Ross is the author of To Mormons, with Love: A Little Something from the New Girl in Utah. She lives in Alpine with her husband and three sons, and blogs at ChrisyRoss.com.