Followed by, “Oh my God, you’re totally bleeding like crazy.”
Not exactly what you want to hear during your Tetanus shot, the one you’ve neglected since your last one in 1993 (when your 10-year-old brother, who’d had a liver transplant at age 4 and spent many months in the hospital, held your hand and told you it would be just fine) because your fear of doctors and hospitals pales only in comparison to your fear of hypodermic needles, all-consuming in its instant paralysis of your body and mind.
They got a name for that, Jules. It’s called… Whitecoat Syndrome.
The first time I heard the term was when I signed up for the seemingly-innocuous Wellness Program at the local YMCA. Don’t be fooled. After showing us the machines and weights, the “trainer” – who’d just witnessed my near-death experience of doing 27 situps and stifled a laugh when I couldn’t touch my toes without bending my knees – tried to take my blood pressure for my so-called progress chart. “Ah, you must have whitecoat syndrome,” she’d said, all authority, like she’d gone to medical school or something. Well I showed her! I paid for 4 months of the program and never went once! Ha, who’s laughing now, Trainer?!
Before we continue, ladies, can we talk for a moment about “Well Woman” exams? They sound so lovely, don’t they? Well woman. Why, it must be like a massage! Let’s all go, together! Girl time! I bet they have some wine and cheese at the end, too! Oh Martha, do let’s go!
Stop.
Let me tell you something. Well woman? Pure marketing. It’s just a nice way of telling you to lie back, put your feet in the stirrups, and shut up. Pay no attention to the cold-handed doctor behind the curtain rooting around down there with a spotlight, poking and pushing, observing, noting, glancing at your do-it-yourself bikini wax with those judging eyes, damn those judging eyes!
*Ahem.*
Despite the fact that I’ve been duped by marketese once again, I’ve been good about my regularly scheduled “Well Woman” exams. I’ve simply neglected/ignored/ran away screaming from anything else in the medical realm. Like cholesterol screenings. And Tetanus shots. Pretty much anything involving needles. Or pain. Or height and weight charts. But now that I’m officially over 30, I figured it was time to be a little more mature about these things. With a minimum of cajoling from Alex (very minimum – you were great, honey!), I made the appointment (and then rewarded myself by planning a new bathroom theme). I had a month to prepare (no, not my bikini wax. My mental game). Out of sight, out of mind.
But this past Sunday arrived, just 2 days before the appointment, the Big Week. I was a wreck. Fretting. Worrying. Doubting. Quite probably some vomiting, I don’t know. Mind you, nothing was particularly wrong with me. Just time for the basic physical and Well Woman excavation – I mean – exam. But when I thought about all those white coats. All that formaldehyde. All those sick people.
*Shudder.*
No more time to fret. Suddenly it’s Tuesday. Game day. I get there early, turn in my paperwork (which I was able to download in advance from their very helpful Web site, much to my delight and surprise, as the last time I was at the Dr. for a physical, there was no Web. Or cell phones, for that matter. Just those big car phones that you had to carry around with a suitcase-sized battery.), and wait patiently for my name to be called. 15 minutes later, I’m behind the secret door that separates the patients from the waiters, making small talk with a friendly medical assistant.
- Medical assistant: Hi, Sarah. You’re going to love the doctor. Now, kindly remove your boots and step on the scale.
- Me: *Gulp*. Okay.
- Medical assistant: *Tapping digital reader on scale* Huh, that can’t be right. Do you have anything really heavy in your pockets? Like a small child or Labrador retriever? (Okay, she doesn’t really say that).
- Medical assistant: Okay, I’m going to take your temperature through your ear. *Sticks thing into ear. Waits. Removes. Sighs.* Are you feeling alright, Sarah? This is rather high.
- Me: Yes, my blood pressure will be high, too. I just hate-I mean, I am afraid of doctors.
- Medical assistant; Ah, We get a lot of whitecoats in here.
Yes, whitecoats, that’s what she calls me. A whitecoat. Like I’m some Revolutionary War spy or something.
Next she leads me into the exam room and instructs me to undress and don the cloth gown, which is actually made of a thick paper that only plays cloth on TV. I can’t remember if I’m supposed to put the ties in the front or the back, or if I’m supposed to sit on the exam table or the old chair. Fret fret fret. Blood pressure increasing. Heart pounding.
Minutes pass. Maybe days. I lose all sense of time and space. Finally, the doctor arrives and, undoubtedly sensing my inherent whitecoatness, spends 5 minutes or so asking me about my job and my life. It works. I relax. Smile, even. Tell her my life story (at least, as it pertains to current medical status). She nods. Smiles. Furrows brow at appropriate times. Advises. Gets to work. I’ll spare you the details of her spelunking adventure (you’re welcome), but during said adventure, we also discuss the importance of sun screen and of course, diet and exercise – the dastardly duo I cant seem to escape. She surfaces. Removes gloves. Answers a few more questions. Writes an Rx. We exchange farewells. Now that she’s spent so much time with me, and seen me naked, we’re practically family.
Fast forward to the Tetanus shot, and a new person – we’ll just call her Shot Girl. Shot Girl is also very nice, calming me down while I hyperventilate (she cleans my upper arm with a cotton ball. Oh, how it burns us, it burns us!) before administering the shot. Expecting the worst, I turn my head and will my heart to slow down as she sticks me. One. Two. Three. And we’re done.
I know people always say this, but I really don’t feel the needle. I do feel something warm trickling down my arm and dripping onto the table (a special leave-behind for the next patient, I guess) as Shot Girl gasps, declares me a bleeder, gasps again, tells me I’m bleeding like crazy, and springs into action. She goes to town on those cotton balls to clean me up. It all happens so fast, I barely have time to register the fact that she isn’t wearing gloves as she mops up my bodily fluids (I guess I don’t fit the profile for someone with a scary transmittable blood disorder?). As soon as I see that dark line of maroon moving down my arm like warm molasses, it’s all I could do to keep my heart in my chest. Must. Stay. Calm. Must. Not. Pass. Out.
I realize, then, that maybe it’s not so much the needles that scare me. Maybe it’s the blood (that would explain my aversion to vampire and zombie movies). Or the unplanned potential for blood. See how quickly life can change? What was supposed to be a routine Tetanus shot (which now also includes protection from Whooping Cough, FYI) turns into a dangerous race against the clock – quick, Shot Girl! Hold her steady! You’ve got to apply that Band-Aid!
Phew. After that kind of near-death experience, I hope against all hopes that Shot Girl can pass the soaked cotton balls on to Phlebotomy Girl so she can simply ring them out into vials, saving me the pleasure of yet another hole in my arm for the blood draw. Alas, my pleas are unheard. There is no way around it. I must let them tourniquet me up for another go. Tight. Tight. Tighter. Rubber on skin. I turn my head, slam my eyes shut, pump the obligatory fist, and go to my happy happy place for a Very. Long. Time. Despite Shot Girl’s testimonials to the contrary, the blood draw is significantly more painful than the Tetanus shot.
*Oh, ouch!*
Blood. So creepy, yet so vital.
Anyway, bleeding abated, holes patched up, glossy 8×10 describing my birth control options in hand, arm throbbing like I’d just lifted my car with it, I am on my way. All in all, not so terrible. Since I am such a Big Girl at the doctor’s (kindly keep your scale comments to yourself), I treat myself to lunch at Whole Foods after my appointment. As I drink my corn poblano soup, I think, hey, I kind of dig this tit-for-tat thing. Go to the doctor. Be a Big Girl. Get a treat.
That said, I’ve gone ahead and scheduled open heart surgery for next week. I figure if a blood draw earned a trip to Whole Foods, heart surgery is worth at least week in Hawaii. Tit. Tat.
I will look it all in another light, when I go ahead and play “shot girl”!! Thanks! You do make me laugh.
I’ve never known anyone so scared of needles, doctors ect. – At the moment I feel slightly morally superior, since last week I was injecting myself twice a day in my stomach, and for the next 6 months I will participate in weekly blood tests.
However I must confess my own illogical fears. #1 the return of 80s fashion. My heart races, in a bad way, when I see someone wearing leggins and an oversized sweater.
#2 Young Republicans in Love. Seriously is there anything more terrifing than seeing a relatively attractive 20 something couple whispering to each other about capital gains taxes?
I’m feeling a little bad about making fun of the bims. While I don’t fear needles I do fear bad news from doctors, so much so that I have been unable to focus on work or writing.
MM
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