Keeping The Doctor Away

Today, I had an appointment with a doctor. As someone who works in a position in which I encourage the general public to have regular contact with and – in fact – to develop a good relationship with their own physician, I feel a bit hypocritical when I reveal that I myself despise visiting the doctor. I can’t quite describe the roots of this aversion, but it’s one that I’ve felt since the beginning of (my) time. My mother has often relayed the story of five-year-old me, visiting the doctor for routine immunizations, and the spectacle that I caused in the clinic office. Refusing to believe the nurse’s blatant lies for a moment (this won’t hurt, it will only take a second) I managed to wedge myself into the small space under my mother’s chair, and there I settled in for the battle.

The poor oblivious nurse had no warning of the epic war ahead of her. Her coaxing and gentle tugs led only to an escalation of my efforts. Inspired by the sight of the needles, I launched tactic number one – the scream. Maintaining this high-pitched sound throughout the battle was a vital demoralizer for the enemy, and I intended to use it well. In short time, I’d moved to tactic number two – full-body resistance. By now, the nurse had called in reinforcements. A number of health care professionals gathered around the chair, unsure of their next move. My mother, having witnessed the strength of my fury many times in the past, had settled into an odd combination of resignation and hope. In short time, the final fight was in progress. Walking past the door, someone glancing in would have seen a nearly unbelievable sight; a young child, apparently female, stiff-limbed under a standard waiting room chair that held a woman in her early thirties. This chair was elevated a number of inches off of the floor by this deceptively small girl. Surrounding the duo, nurses pulled on the child from all angles, the strain and effort apparent in their faces.

Eventually, I was immunized, but the violent battle had taken a toll on everyone involved. Fast forward twenty-five years, and I still feel the urge to crawl under chairs when faced with an approaching needle. Now, instead of a group of nurses, I wrestle with my own internal voice of reason. Our conversations are tense:

Me: Holy crap! What in the hell is that? It looks like it could suck an eyeball through it – it’s HUGE! There is NO WAY that I am letting that thing puncture my skin!

Reason: Give me a break. I’m SURE that you can’t even remove an eyeball through a needle. There are cable-y thingies attaching your eye to your brain.

Me: Who the HELL CARES??!!?? That needle is NOT going where that nurse thinks it’s going. I KNEW that I didn’t like her when she mispronounced my name in the waiting room.

Reason: Come on. EVERYONE mispronounces your name. You have had many, many needles in you in the past, and you are JUST FINE. Plus, you’ve drawn blood from a TON of dogs and cats. You’re very familiar with the mechanics of the

Me: WHOA! What did she just take out of that drawer? How many tubes does she have there? Does she plan to entirely DEPLETE me of blood? There is no WAY that she can take that many tubes of liquid out of me!

Reason: Stop. It. Right. Now. You are acting like a child. You are an adult. You don’t think that you’ll have to endure worse things than this in your life?

Me: OUCH! CRAP! What is she DOING? Trying to SLICE MY VEIN IN HALF????

Reason: For crying out loud, YOU ARE ALL DONE. Cripes. What a huge baby you are!

Me: Well, that wasn’t so bad. Why’d you get me so worked up about it?

Over the years, many horrifying moments have occurred in the clinical setting. Today, for example, I narrowly escaped a nearly catastrophic situation: The Tetanus Shot. To be completely honest, I have no idea of when I had my last tetanus shot. Because of this, my chart does not reflect a date. This means that every time I visit the clinic, I am asked about it. T, the medical assistant, asked about it very early in our conversation this afternoon.

T: Do you know when you had your last tetanus shot?

Me: (Looking off to the side, striving to appear unconcerned) Hmmmm. No, I’m not really sure….

T: Do you think that it was in the last ten years?

Me: Mmmm-hmmmm. I think so…..

In reality, it may not have been within the last ten years. Then again, maybe it was. You would think that such a traumatic experience would be burned unto my brain, but my brain has other ways of looking out for me. The tool applied in this situation was clearly The Block. The Block means that, when I hear the phrase "tetanus shot," the alarms go off and the emergency metal doors of my mind come slamming down in my head, blocking the passage to the memory chamber. An effective tool in some situations, but flawed in that I haven’t found the "false alarm, open the doors now" button.

After the assistant left, an uneasy feeling lingered in me. As it turns out, it was justified. Upon her arrival, my doctor had a seat and began to go over many of the same questions that I’d already been asked. Once again, the tetanus topic was raised.

Dr: Do you remember the last time that you had a tetanus shot?

Me: No, I can’t quite recall….

Dr.: Hmmm. I have some of your old records here. I’ll scroll through them and see if I can find anything.

Me: (Thinking to myself: Do not panic. Look as if you’re not alarmed. You can always refuse the shot.)

Dr.: Well, there’s a mention here from 2001 saying that you couldn’t remember the last time that you had the shot. That was quite a while ago.

Me: Hmmm. I definitely have had a lot of those shots. (Thinking to myself: Crap. Why did I say that? You’re not supposed to have a "lot of those shots," you idiot. You only get those every few years.)

Dr: Oh, I see that T has already put a request in for the vaccination.

Me: Oh? (Thinking to myself: Traitorous woman!)

Dr.: But do you think you could find out when you had the last one? Or would you rather just have one today, just in case?

Me: Oh, I can DEFINITELY find out when the last time was. Yes, I’ll make a couple of calls...

The relief that I felt at that offered "out" was short lived. Standing up from the computer, the doctor walked over to the small vanity in the office. After washing her hands, she pulled open a drawer. In horror, I watched as she lifted out the syringe.

It was a very, very long day.