One and only one thing sends true terror through my heart--needles. (for sake of those familiar with the cold sweats, shaking hands, and tears of pure terror, I will leave my description as simple as "needles" ). In the past, the mere mention of a shot would send me racing down the hall. Ask my mom. She had the unenviable task of chasing my 17-year old self down the hall of a church set up as a clinic for hepatitis vaccines. (Long John Silver's is no doubt the cleanest restaurant in Ponca City after that little health department scare. Ick.).
Unfortunately, the joy and blessing of a baby also brings with it the fear, loathing, and sleepless nights that are the precursor to the inevitable. I have tried bargaining with my doctor. Tried waiving my rights to everything that could possibly come out of NOT having blood work.
My doctor didn't bite. She is matter of fact. Some would say she's cold in her delivery of information. Three years ago, she didn't mince words, "How long have you had panic attacks?" she asked me. A panic attack! Me?!
Absolutely. In every sense of the word. For decades, the mere mention of medical procedures sent me into a tizzy (hence my toddler nickname "Tizzy Lizzy"--I obviously still haven't outgrown that name).
Modern medicine. Xanax. Drugs that make "normal" people sleep for days simply give me the strength to sit in a chair and speak reasonably to the lab technician. Make no mistake, my demands are not reasonable. I simply have the coherent ability to ask politely. A polished lawyer I am not when faced with a doctor's visit. My face buried in a soft fleece jacket laced with perfume to cover the smell of alcohol, I pray secretly that I will see no one I know.
Today was a success. I knew no one. No one will the the wiser. I survived. And, at the end of the many bargains I tried to strike today (yes, I still try to bargain for release from the tests--just politely now), I will see my ultimate reward--just like last time:
(I can't believe he's almost three!)
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