needles, suckers, and cries for my momma

June 17, 2008

When I was a kid, I went to a good home town doctor whose name I can’t recall at the moment, although I’m sure he still works in the same building in the same home town.  In his office was a nurse.  I remember her hair pulled back tightly in a bun and glasses on her nose.  She wore a stiff white skirt that made scratching sounds when she walked and thick white hose that made her legs look like those a snowman should have.  And she had suckers.  Green, yellow, and orange ones. 

She gave me my very first shot.  I was laying on that white paper that crunches when you move.  It was cool on my face as my hot tears soaked the crinkly paper.  I was terrified.  I remember her voice and the soothing way she told me to be brave.  She rubbed her hands together to make them warmer and then gently pinched my little girl bottom and pat, pat, patted the tender skin in her hand.  Before I knew it, she was grinning at me and telling me what a big girl I’d been.  I took my orange sucker, stood a bit taller, and felt like the bravest girl in all the world.

Since then, I really haven’t been afraid of needles at all.  I gave blood regularly throughout college without flinching and have had vaccinations galore that involved those little pinpricks.  And I was fearless through them all.

Until last Tuesday. 

I went to the doctor about the aching leg that’s kept me from running for 18 days.  We talked through medication options that would get me back on the exercising circuit quickly and determined that a series of six injections would be the most effective.  No problem.  I’m not afraid of needles.

I got my prescription filled and peeked inside the bag.  You know those big honking fat pencils that kindergartners use?  Yeah, there were six needles that looked just like that and I was scared.  I admit it.  Still, I brought the medicine to school in those little vials and watched as the school nurse tapped away the air bubbles, drew the yellow liquid into the syringe, and squeezed it until tiny droplets were sitting on top of that fat pencil needle.  There was no crinkly paper and no warm hands or pats on the bottom, just a gigantic stick and a sting that lasted for six hours. 

I’ve had all but one shot since then and there are two large purple bruises on my backside that prove it.  And I’ve decided I’m not getting that last one.  I can’t do it.  I’m not a big girl.  I’m not.  My momma’s not here and the nurse doesn’t have suckers.  I’m NOT a big girl.  I’m not brave.  I’m a whining, whimpering wuss of a woman and that’s just fine with me.

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