“Is she having a seizure?”
That was the first
thing I heard after regaining consciousness. I could not remember how I ended
up on my back in the hallway of the animal shelter. Soon though, I put two and
two together. About as quickly, the event that triggered the faint came rushing
back. A vet rubbing the needle plunged into the poor Chihuahua’s vein, teasing
reluctant blood into her syringe. The words “We’ll have to go for the jugular.”
They seemed more real than the blurry faces of the other volunteers hovering
over me.
“She’s not having a seizure. It’s nothing to
worry about.” My mom’s voice penetrated the fog. She helped me up and guided me
out of the hallway and to a seat. By that time, embarrassment had replaced my
confusion. I’m a failure. The thought
shuddered through me. I’m a coward. I’m
weak. As the shame welled up, so did tears. This did nothing to alleviate
my shame. I tucked into a ball, forehead against knees, and tried in vain to
suppress the sobs wracking me. Mom didn’t touch me. She didn’t speak to me. I
loved her for it. She has always understood that when I cry, comfort is the
last thing I want.
How could this have happened? Until that
moment, I had always seen myself as strong stomached. While my sister would
cower on a chair, I would squash spiders and earwigs, usually using her shoes.
Whenever my cat left half eaten mice on our doorstep, I would take a pair of
toothpicks and poke through the remains to see what rodent organs look like
before disposing of it and thoroughly washing my hands. When the same cat had
an infection so severe that the veterinarian had to insert a tube into the
wound to allow the pus to drain, I alone in my house could stomach cleaning and
wiggling the tube three times a day to prevent it from healing into the cat. If
none of this fazed me, why would a needle bring me literally to my knees? I had
no answer. All I knew was that I had met defeat where I had not even expected a
challenge.
“Did you hurt
anything when you fell?” the vet asked once I had calmed down. Pride came to
mind, but I did not trust my tongue enough to attempt a joke. I shook my head
instead. She continued to speak, saying something about it being a common
reaction and so on and so forth. I knew she meant well, but the word common was
not one I wanted applied to me. My mom deflected the rest of the vet’s
comments. Once Dad met up with us, we started a
long and silent ride home. By the time we got back, I had recovered enough to
talk, and talk I did. I discussed weakness and embarrassment with my mother. I
discussed failure with my father. I compared notes on fainting with my sister,
who had passed out years before when getting her own blood drawn. After looking
long and hard at the whole situation, I came to accept two things; I have a
mild phobia. It does not define me. I did no more to develop this problem than
a sick person does to catch a cold. It’s just the cards I was dealt. What is up
to me is how I play them.
Fast forward a
year. I had to have a checkup. The nurse did her weighing and measuring. The
doctor listened to my heart and examined my ears. Then, she asked her
obligatory questions. Have I been drinking? No. Have I done any drugs? No. Have
I noticed anything out of the ordinary?
“Actually, I noticed
a bump on my neck. It’s probably nothing.” I showed her the offending spot.
“Well, it’s likely
a swollen gland. You might have a tiny bug in your system. I can take a blood
sample to check white blood cell count.”
I hesitated long
enough to swallow. “Okay. But just so you know, I’ll need to sit for a while
afterwards. Needles and I aren’t great friends.”
She assured me
that wouldn’t be a problem and collected her equipment. I leaned back in the paper
covered chair and breathed. The doctor tied the tourniquet around my arm. I
could feel the warmth building slightly in my fingers. Next came the cotton
swab. I picked four numbers at random. 1, 4, 5, 8. As the needle pierced my
skin, I kept my mind entirely focused on how I could make those numbers add up
to 24. Dizziness still crept up, and my stomach rolled over, but the darkness
did not close in. By the time I had come up with a solution, the procedure was
over, the dizziness had passed, and I could walk out of the office unassisted.
