LiLu may not host TMI Thursdays anymore, but that’s no reason for me not to share! With that I give you another riveting addition of TMI Thursday!
One would look at me as see a girl with a few piercings and several tattoos. One could then assume that needles don’t bother me at all. Yo ho, me hearties, not so fast!
I have become a huge baby when it comes to needles for medical purposes. No, I’m not afraid of the doctor or even the dentist, but I hate the poking and stabbing of needles, even when it’s for my own good. The tattoo needles? I know they’re not diving down into my skin. They’re just scratching the mother-luvin’ crap out of me and making my skin nice and colourful. Piercing needles? They’re over and done with within seconds. Needles for medical purposes? Ha! They’re evil.
I haven’t always been afraid of needles actually. Back in my Grade school days when we had to get boosters and such I was a champ, laughing at the kids who needed their teddy bears. Now? Sweet Jeebus, get me out of there.
I think it started when I had to have an MRI done on my shoulder. They had to inject dye into the area so the loveliness would should up. Apparently they missed their “mark” not once, but twice, and have to stab at me three times before getting it right. In the meantime, I was crying because it hurt SO BAD (See: I can feel the needle against my shoulder socket) and the nurse didn’t seem too concerned. Cue instant fear. Note that this was also my first experience with medical needles other than for immunizations.
Then a couple summers ago I dislocated my shoulder REAL GOOD and the doctor wanted to knock me out via IV to put it back in. Cue me having a panic attack.
I’ve also had bloodwork done, which wasn’st so bad, except there was no way I could look at the blood going into the vile. I don’t get queesy about blood, but needles are not so great. Ugh.
So yesterday, I went to the doctor because I’ve been getting awful cramps for no good reason (Read: No PMS or gas). He pokes as me, listens to be breathe and then decides that he’d like me to pee in a cup. No big deal, except that the only washroom is out in the hallway outside the actual office, which means I get to walk through a waiting room full of people with a lovely little cup full of the good stuff.
The pee sample gave up no information (I’m not pregnant! A good thing, considered the amount of liquor I’ve consumed in the past month) so what does the doctor order? Bloodwork, and lots of it followed by another appointment in a week. Oh good!
That vampire of a nurse took two freaking tubes of my blood and I’m surprised I didn’t pass out considering I hadn’t eaten anything. Maybe I went all pale since she asked me at least five times if I was okay. (Which I was, to a point. No one likes having to be told “Oh, go get your blood taken, like, now.”)
So go back to the doctor on Tuesday next week and I’ll hopefully get some answers to what’s going on in my guts. Maybe I eat hair in my sleep and it’s a hairball. Maybe that alien who abducted me implanted me with its spawn. Maybe I just need to let one rip. Until then, keep your freakin’ needles away from me.