the weird chick


January 19th, 2010

I hate needles. I really do. I was at the doctor’s once – I wasn’t feeling too well – and he did the regular stuff, like pushing on my stomach and asking if it hurt, or weighing me, or something routine like that. I’m fine with all that, doesn’t bother me at all. But then he reached over for that paper, the one he fills out every time I need to get blood work done. I panicked. Not too obviously – as in, I didn’t make any noise – but still something you could notice. The last time I went to see him, about a year or so ago, the same thing happened. Well, I don’t think it was quite as bad, but the same sort of thing happened. I probably mentioned hating needles. This time, I almost started to cry, and I wasn’t even getting the needle yet. I had all the signs of anxiety – I was shaky, breathing heavily, set to cry, talking fast and awkwardly – and the doctor had barely just told me that I had to get some blood work done.

Nobody hates needles as much as I do. At least, nobody I know. I turn into a little kid whenever I have to get a needle. I cry, I hyperventilate, I shake, and I need my mommy. One time, when she wasn’t there, I just refused to get the needle. My dad was there and a nurse was there, that was it. She put the disinfectant on my arm – the inside of my elbow – and was preparing to tie me off, when I panicked and pulled my arms up in front of me, elbows bent to keep my veins safe and puncture-free. Naturally, the nurse and my dad weren’t too pleased. The nurse didn’t do much, I guess she was a little shocked by my behaviour. I was sixteen at the time, I think, and people tend to judge based on age. Being sixteen, I guess she assumed I wouldn’t cry and panic and act like a scared little girl.