When it comes to matters of medical hokum pokum, I am what they call in the scientific community a Woosicus Rex. I cannot handle needles or any other form of invasion by a medical professional. My body has developed a handy response to such stresses to my body and psyche; the blood rushes from my head and I faint. I learned later in my life that this response is called Vasovagal Syncope—the very same physiological response that prompted our former president to faint after choking on a chunk of pretzel. (All things considered, I don’t think death by pretzel is a terrible way to go.)
I fainted for the first time in the fourth grade, when we were learning how bruises formed in Health class. In the fifth grade, during a D.A.R.E. class with our local police officer, Vasovagal Syncope struck again as we learned how some drug addicts shot up heroine underneath their fingernails and toenails to avoid detection. Needless to say, I never contemplated a life as a heroine addict. The class had its desired effect. During high school, I fainted at the ophthalmologist’s office when he stuck his fingers in my eyeballs to put in a fresh pair of contacts.
For years, with varying degrees of success, I have been trying to explain this to members of the medical community when they try to inject some ‘helpful’ chemical or antibody, or even worse, extract some of my blood for their nefarious purposes. The last time I had a blood test was enough for me to swear off needles for good. My veins eluded the nurse’s attempts to find them. She had me squeezing a ball, and she poked my right arm twice and my left arm once before finding a vein to give her blood. I made her take a break to let me slow down the hyperventilating.
Today, I had to return to the scene of the crime for another blood test. Needless to say, memories of my last bloodsucking experience haunted me all the way to the office. But, today, unlike that morning a couple years ago, I was armed with something that made all the difference: my husband.
Sure, this time I had a nurse much more adept at extracting my blood. Sure, I was more hydrated and my veins more visible. But, the lynch pin to help me through the troubling ordeal was my Charles, holding my hand and distracting me with talk of Diet Pepsi. It may not seem like much to anyone who can donate blood, but to me it meant all the difference to have him there distracting me and supporting me.
Am I strong enough to get through things like this on my own? Sure. Would I have made it without him today? Yes. But, it would have been much, much harder. Sharing your life with someone doesn’t make you weaker because you have someone to depend on in situations such as these. It makes both of you stronger, because support from someone you love makes it easier to buck up, face the music, and do what you must do.
