I am, to put it mildly, a little afraid of going to the doctor.
Make no mistake -- I'm not talking about "Oh, gee, I hope I don't have to get a shot" (something I wouldn't dare utter in a bar in relation to tequila) scared. I'm talking about having full-force panic attacks in the waiting room and shaking (and biting) like a wet Chihuahua when the doctor attempts anything more uncomfortable than taking my temperature.
What's that, Doc? You say I need a shot? Ha. You'd better be able to prove that not receiving this shot will lead to my certain and painful death. Failing that, I hope you've been logging some time in the weight room, otherwise you are going to have a hell of a time dragging me out of the cabinet under the sink when you return with the syringe.
My fear of all things medical is a bit of a problem seeing as how I am apparently allergic to the state of Virginia and get sick about every six weeks (and yes, I'm sure it's Virginia, and not fatigue from too many late nights). Though it is tough to isolate the exact event that lead to my phobia, I would guess it has something to do with my parents' decision when I was six to pick a man aptly named Doctor Payne to be my physician for the rest of my life.
Dr. Payne isn't a bad guy. If he was my mailman or perhaps an elementary school teacher, I'm sure we would get along famously. As it stands, however, the good doctor and I have been at odds for almost 15 years. The thing about Dr. Payne is that he has what I consider a happy trigger finger when it comes to injections. If he were in control of our country's nuclear strikes, I'm sure we would have decimated several countries by now (I won't say which ones -- politics scare me almost as much as doctor visits). Thus, every time my parents coerce me into visiting Dr. Payne, I feel he is far too eager to stick me with a needle. I don't even know why he bothers to suggest it at this point, as I always refuse treatment.
One time, just once, he got me to let my guard down momentarily. I said I would allow the nurse to give me the shot and proceeded to roll up my sleeve.
"Um, that's not exactly where this shot goes," the nurse said sweetly. I then informed her that I drop skirt for no one -- at least not before a couple drinks and/or dinner and a movie. Jeez, talk about adding insult to injury.
Leaving Dr. Payne and coming up to the University has not done much to quell my fear of doctors. Whereas despite our differences I always knew Dr. Payne was an actual doctor, some of the "doctors" at Student Health worry me a bit. I get the feeling that some of them just completed some sort of two-week online training course before being turned loose to practice on students.
"Don't worry about getting the diagnosis wrong," the smarmy online medical professor would say. "U.Va. students all have untreatable viruses anyway ... prescribe whatever you want! Mix it up! Keep it interesting!"
One of the favorite tricks of the (alleged) doctors at Student Health is a sort of "leading the witness" approach to asking about symptoms that always culminates with a mono test, which involves having blood taken. I think the doctor who collects the most blood from students must get a free set of steak knives or a better parking spot or something.
Word to the wise: No matter what you do, don't tell the doctor that you've been feeling tired unless you want blood taken. Tired equals mono test and mono test equals you enduring pain for the sake of some doctor getting a better set of steak knives. I'll admit that I made this mistake not once but twice last year. The first time, I almost slid out of the chair and fainted as soon as I saw the needle. They must have remembered me the second time, because they put me in a special chair for "fainters" that looked like something out of a 19th century insane asylum. I felt lucky to get out of there without being confined to a straight jacket.
Given my admitted terror in regards to needles, I have to reveal two things that may shock you. The first is that I voluntarily (I say voluntarily, but I think my mother would have stopped payment on my tuition check if I hadn't) got a flu shot this week. Though I felt a little bit like a farm animal waiting in line for the shot and did some pretty lame flinching when I saw the needle, I'd say I took it like a champ.
This leads me to my second startling confession, which is that I badly want a tattoo (sorry, Mom and Dad). I know, I know. Lots of needles involved in getting a tattoo -- but I got the flu shot! That's pretty hardcore, right? I mean, I think that pretty much qualifies me for "fearless badass" status. That said, volunteers to hold my hand/wipe my tears/get crunk with me beforehand would be much appreciated. On second thought, maybe I should sleep on the idea. Just don't tell Student Health I'm feeling tired.
Erin's column runs biweekly on Mondays. She can be reached at gaetz@cavalierdaily.com.
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