Thursday, Mar. 03, 2005
Anatomy essay- extra credit, because I'm a wimp and cannot give blood.
Why I’ll never have pierced ears, tattoos, botox injections, or give birth to a live human being.
When I was a young child of five years, just a week from turning the big S-I-X, I went in to the hospital to have my first set of tubes put in. My parents and doctor had explained the procedure to me, in the best way they could. Needless to say, being a little girl who could barely get a grasp on tying her shoes, I did not understand. To my understanding, I was going to the hospital, and they’d put me to sleep. Upon awakening, I would feel like crap. But my ears wouldn’t hurt again, and I would soon get to play with my new doll specially bought for the occasion.
Upon arrival at the hospital, I sat down with a nurse, and was told to hold out my finger. ‘Why?’ I asked, and I got no response. The nurse just asked me to hold out a finger. Again, I asked why. She still would not respond, and forcefully grabbed my arm. I was terrified. I kept asking why, and the nurse told me to hush up. I was nervous, and swinging my feet out of anxiety. The nurse then held a yellow thing to my finger, and drew out a drop of blood. This came as a total shock to me, and I, already nervous and scared, became hysterical. I kicked the nurse. This, I believe, was start of a long and tumultuous affair: my great and horrendous fear of needles.
At the great and empowering age of ten (it’s those double digits, you know) I decided it was about time that I got my ears pierced. I sat down in the chair, I got the little dots marked on my ears, they held the earring-gun to my head, and I cried out, “WAIT!” I could not do it. The thought of a needle shooting into and back out of my body at what seemed to be the speed of light was too much for me. I spent that Easter Weekend with purple ink-dots on my ears. When I was 12, I had to get blood drawn for some-reason-or-another. I don’t quite recall why, but I know it was for something medical. In the car ride to the lab, I cried hysterically and begged my mother not to make me go. I offered every plea bargain a twelve-year-old could come up with. I offered to keep my room clean, to do the dishes. I even offered to clean toilets, knowing full well that I would never follow through. Needless to say, it is an experience I’d like to forget.
There are many similar experiences in my needle-phobic life. However, being the kind, and gentle person that I am, I’ll spare you. I believe you get the idea anyway. When I told my mother about the extra-credit options laid out before me, she laughed, automatically assuming I’d be writing a paper. In fact, she came with the title for me. But alas! I was on a soul-searching hell-bent internal debate. Should I let my mother be right? Let my boyfriend of nearly three-years laugh at me in his sweetly joking manner because I cannot bring myself to even think of giving blood without letting out an earth-shattering shutter? Yes. Because phobias are real, and mine is near-paralyzing; I realize that eventually I will have to face my fears one day. However, that day is not today, and it will not take place at school-run function, in a room full of my peers and admired and respected teachers. While the thought of being a brave person, and stepping up to do good for humanity is appealing, and while it’d be nice to get people to quit nagging me about giving blood, those positives cannot overcome this pulse-rushing, goose-bump raising, shiver-inducing fear of mine. Show me a needle, and I’ll show you the least-graceful exit known to man kind short of those created in Bugs-Bunny cartoons.
theparisian at 3:27 p.m.