Today, I tell you a descriptive story about a memory. It is about the day I freaked the fuck out of a bunch of clinic girls. And I was like 5 or 6. #LikeABoss
I can’t exactly place this on my mental timeline of my illness, but it’s a fun story nonetheless.
Little kids kind of always hate needles, even the butterfly ones.
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| THIS DOES NOT LOOK LIKE A PRETTY FUCKING BUTTERFLY |
At one point when we weren’t sure what I was going through and I was incredibly ill – so ill my doctors thought I was dying – I was getting blood drawn like EVERY DAY. This is not even an exaggeration. I wish it was. Pretty much all of the memories I have of the blood draw clinic area have blended together, save this exciting day.
I was not sleeping well and, well behaved as I usually was (especially for a “dying” girl), I was showing being tired and feeling gross. I was hurting all over. I needed a nurse who knew how to handle my poor battered arms, which by now looked like they belonged to a cleanly drug addict. I can still see scars from all the pokes.
The room smelled like metal and latex. It was kind of chilly and that didn’t help my attitude.
My nurse was not very lucky. On any other day, I would have been cute and laughing and whatnot. While I still was, I was also not having a pleasant day to say the least. She went in once with the needle and missed the vein. She tried again – by wiggling the damn needle IN MY ARM – and I don’t even remember if she got blood.
I screamed bloody murder. We aren’t talking about a kid who is whining or one who is throwing a tantrum. I am literally talking about a blood curdling scream.
My memory is fuzzy on the rest, but I remember watching a million nurses running into the room to make sure I was okay. I vaguely remember ice cream? Maybe when I got home? I dunno.
All I know is that is probably a day that poor nurse never forgot. Oops!