I got the impression, as I was sifting through the scads of comments on my post about my freakishly small veins, that some readers might come away with the impression that I was “strong” or “brave”.
Alas. That is not the case.
I didn’t mention that the second nurse passed on the foot vein because I was shaking so bad and doing some really unattractive deep breathing exercises. I don’t know what it is, medical shit fucks me up. I see empty vials and I feel woozy. Needles bring on heart palpitations. The clanky sound of a speculum being wound out literally makes me cry.
One time during sophomore year of high school, my biology teacher started talking about horse serum, and I found I couldn’t grasp my pencil. My lab partner forced me to go to the bathroom to splash some water on my face. When I looked in the mirror, I almost didn’t recognize myself. You know that scene in ET when the poor little bastard is face-down in the river? That’s what I looked like, all pale and translucent.
Why am I such a wuss? My mom thinks it’s because I had a bunch of invasive stuff done when I was a wee lass…stomach pumped twice (once I ate rat poison, another time a peach pit), tubes in my ears, surgery to remove calcium deposits in my thumb, yadda yadda. She cites the time she had to take me along to a Lamaze class that she was teaching, and when I saw on the reel-to-reel film a dude in green scrubs, I pointed at the screen and said, “Dat bad daddy hurted me!”
All right. I’ll buy it. But I’m 34! When am I going to get over this bullshit?
Not today, apparently. When the nurse tied the rubber tourniquet around my upper arm and inserted the needle, and I could hear a sound emanating from my elbow not unlike the sound Hannibal Lecter made after he said he ate some guy’s liver with fava beans and a nice Chianti, I broke into fits of ridiculous, weepy giggles.
Not cool, Ame.