Jamie Reidy’s fear of needles is getting better, but he’s still taking it a step at a time.
I wasn’t always afraid of them.
In second grade, I woke up in the middle of a Saturday night to tinkle. Vision blurry, I blinked over and over when I saw that the toilet water had turned red. Finally, I realized my eyes did not deceive. “Mommy!” My parents shushed me back into bed and promptly called the pediatrician. The next morning, I went to Catholic Sunday school like normal. But Dad strode into the classroom mid-lesson to take me to the hospital.
The doctor asked me a lot of questions, trying to figure out why I suddenly had blood in my urine. No, I had not fallen down at recess or in the backyard. No, nobody kicked me in the lower back. No, I don’t have a tummy ache or feel feverish. The pediatrician told my folks not to worry; he’d just run some precautionary tests.
Unbeknownst to me, that meant drawing blood. My mother stroked my hair as the nurse wheeled in a metal cart. I stared at the seemingly endless supply of test tubes. With a warm smile, she poured rubbing alcohol on a cotton ball and then vigorously scrubbed my left elbow’s opposite side. The scent of the disinfectant triggered an alarm in my brain.
The nurse took out a funny-looking rubber tube. It wiggled like a long, skinny snake. I laughed, unaware of the evil serpent lurking within. She tied it around my upper arm and I immediately loathed the sensation. Mom took my right hand and stroked the top of it.
I distinctly recall the nurse lightly running her fingertips over my bulging, blue-green veins. She spoke soothingly. “Look at these big veins you’ve got! You’re so lucky. This’ll be a snap!” I relaxed.
And then she pulled out the needle.
Mom says patients three floors above us must have heard my glass-shattering shriek. I remember my ears being filled with a roar like static on the TV. Within seconds, I fainted. This scenario played out each time the RNs came to draw blood, only I started screaming before the tourniquet appeared. I got to the point where I could hear the needle cart’s wheels down the corridor. Three days later, the doctor discharged me with a clean bill of health and a lifelong terror of needles.
♦◊♦
For the next ten years, high school sports physicals proved to be the only reasons I had to give blood. Thanks to my pediatrician’s nurse, who proved sympathetic to my being a needle ninny, I learned that if I lied down and avoided looking anywhere near the needle, I could make it through without losing consciousness. Of course, my terror would force me to wait an extra half an hour, so she could complete my blood pressure exam.
Upon learning as a teenager that blood tests were required for a marriage license, I declared I’d never get engaged. (To my mother’s eternal dismay, my bachelorhood entrenches further with each passing day, in spite of the fact that the blood-test requirement was waived decades ago.) My father, a lifetime “Two-Gallon Donor,” mocked me for being too much of a wuss to donate blood to the Red Cross. He’d proudly show off the track marks in his arms’ veins, instantly causing me to get lightheaded.
And then I had to go and join the Army.
Unfortunately for me, Uncle Sam draws more blood than a vampire hematologist. Once again, deploying the “lay down and look away” strategy proved successful in passing out prevention. Until, that is, the day the Camp Zama, Japan, post commander ordered that everyone had to get a flu shot. This was non-negotiable. The medical unit slowly made its way to from building to building; I felt like Kevin Costner in No Way Out, helpless as my enemies closed in.
I led my personnel team of eight soldiers into the large room that had been cleared out for the medical invasion. Over the past year, I—a Second Lieutenant—had worked hard to earn their respect. Somehow, I’d succeeded.
A male and female nurse team faced us. “Please remove your BDU top,” the guy announced. We all stripped off our camouflage blouses, leaving us in olive t-shirts. I hoped nobody would notice the sweat stains on my back or arm pits.
“No needles!” the woman announced. I nearly kissed her on the mouth.
“But I thought we was gettin’ flu shots?” one of my sergeants asked.
The woman nodded. “You are. But now we got these guns.” She raised her arm, displaying something that resembled a small electric screwdriver. “It’s like an air needle.”
Whoosh! My blood pressure plummeted. An air needle sounded fucking a lot like a needle needle.
The nurses stood a foot apart from each other. We watched as soldiers lined up. One stepped between the medical professionals, who simultaneously aimed their weapons at his upper arm. Zap, zap. He shrugged and walked away. A dozen more people followed. No one fainted.
Despite everyone’s nonchalance, I could not calm down. But my fear triggered a brainstorm. I turned to my troops and clapped my hands together.
“OK, this is just like the chow hall, right? Officers go last.”
Judging from their laughter, apparently not.
“No, sir. This is more like ‘Pork Chop Hill.’”
And that’s really the crux of the military: subordinates want to know that their officers will lead them into battle and that the former should follow the latter. At that moment, I realized I was more afraid of losing their respect than I was of all things needle.
I stood there, 23 years old, silently praying I wouldn’t pass out in front of these men and women. Smiling broadly, probably too much so, I strode toward the nurses.
Quickly leaning close, I whispered, “I need to lie down.” They didn’t hear me.
“What’s that, Lieutenant?”
I didn’t need to turn around to know every eye in the room was on me. Sheepish, I cleared my throat. Whispering only slightly louder, I implored the nurses. “I get dizzy. I need to lie down for the—”
Zap, zap. They fired their weapons. Painless.
“Next!”
Confused by what exactly had just happened and why exactly I didn’t faint, I hesitated. The female nurse cocked her head at me. “Sir?” I finally got my bearings.
“Don’t I get a lollipop or something?” My soldiers cracked up. That’s our LT!
I nearly skipped out of the room.
♦◊♦
I gave blood only a few more times over the next three years, interestingly once in order to get out of the Army. I went faint-less on each occasion, thanks to having learned to vigorously flex my fingers and toes as a way of keeping my blood pressure up.
In September 1996, a year into my career as a pharmaceutical salesman, I began having unusual heart palpitations, to the point that even a bachelor knew to seek medical attention. My G.P. ordered tests, which I knew meant blood work. He laughed when I asked, “You mean you can’t check my heart without drawing blood?” I, of course, was not kidding.
At the doctor’s lab, I recognized a nurse from a recent dinner program my Pfizer colleagues and I had sponsored. This was not a positive development. The medical assistant led me to a wide open area; no private blood-drawing for me. I could have asked to sit down. I should have asked to sit down. But I didn’t want the nurse to report to my coworkers, “Jamie Reidy is a pussy.”
So, standing in checked grey and black suit pants, I stood up and extended my arm to the M.A. She tied the tourniquet around my biceps and I felt the familiar panic set in. I flexed my fingers and toes enough to power a city block. I breathed deeper than a yogi. But the woman jabbed that needle into my vein like an old lady using chop sticks to grab a single grain of rice. I heard the roar of television static in my ears.
The smelling salts did their job. I came to, soaked in sweat and staring at the ceiling. The medical assistant explained that she caught me on the way down. She smiled empathetically. As did the nurse in front of whom I did not want to look less than macho. Sigh.
They helped me to my feet and I instantly felt the sweatiness in the crotch of my pants. Only, it wasn’t sweat.
I’d pissed myself.
My suit trousers were soaked. No one can even tell, I told myself. The grey and black checked pattern is perfect camouflage.
I apologized to the medical assistant for passing out. She waved me off, saying it happened all the time. The nurse kindly made the “lock and key” motion on her lips (a promise she, in fact, kept). If anyone noticed that I’d lost control of my bladder while unconscious on the floor, they didn’t mention it.
I race-walked out of there, my legs spread wide to try and reduce chafing. I skipped my scheduled sales call and headed for home. In the laundry room, cursing my dearth of dudeness, I stripped off the suit pants and tossed them in the wash.
Twenty minutes later, freshly showered and attired in a blue suit, I exited my house. I tried to lock the door, only found myself with no keys in my pocket. Dread seized me.
The keys to my company car currently resided in the washing machine, where they splashed happily alongside my wallet. I took the rest of the day off.
Since then, I have sat down or lied down whenever forced to give blood. Nothing can get me to budge on this. Even if Eva Mendes is the medical assistant and I’d overheard her telling a colleague how uncontrollably wet she gets around pale, balding, not-totally-wimpy-guys, I still will choose to recline on the exam table, crinkling the tissue paper.
But playing it safe has not reduced my anxiety. If anything, nowadays I get more worked up over the procedure. My mind begins picturing the needle before I even climb behind the steering wheel. Both my biceps alternate feeling the sensation of the tourniquet tightening. My veins anticipate the medical assistant’s probing as gently as a guy working off his community service hours on roadside litter clean up. By the time I reach the doctor’s office, my ears hum with low volume static.
I nearly pass out each time.
If only I could use these evil mental powers for good! For instance, why can’t I picture myself speaking fluent Spanish and then go flirt con Senora Mendes? Why can’t I write in my mind not-shitty fiction and then sit down and type it on my laptop?
♦◊♦
In late May of 2006, I came down with a terrible sore throat. This was particularly inconvenient timing, as I was scheduled to leave for a trip to Scotland on Memorial Day. So, I rushed to my G.P. for a strep test and a prescription for a double course of Zithromax. (Yes, Pfizer brainwashed me. But it’s still the best antibiotic ever.)
Yet the visit didn’t go so easily, as the doctor decided she needed to rule out mononucleosis. “Just in case.” You know, because that’s a common ailment among 36-year-olds. Then again, it’s tough to complain about a physician doing her job. She’s, like, so damn thorough, always making certain I don’t have a more serious illness!
But as far as blood-draws go, this was perfect timing: I’d had no opportunity to crank up my mental midget anxiety machine. Within seconds, I was seated at one of those college classroom half-desks, the kind where the actual writing surface raises to the side.
Left arm extended, I looked as far off to my right as my neck could stand. My fingers flexed feverishly, like an Occupy Wall Street voter after two Red Bulls. But, as the medical assistant I’d never met before readied her equipment, static hummed in my ears.
I tried to focus on her Filipino accent as she babbled on about whoknowswhat. When that didn’t work, I thought about Springsteen at Madison Square Garden in July 2000. The noise only increased. I switched to my sex highlight reel. The static crescendoed like the soundtrack to a horror movie as the screen goes black.
With my eyes still closed, I instinctively knew two important things: I was neither sitting up nor lying down. I felt my right biceps and both quadriceps strangely quaking from strain. What the fuck happened this time? I opened my eyes and beads of sweat rolled inside. Blinking rapidly, I waited for my vision to clear.
I saw the new medical assistant standing frozen above me. And staring down in terror.
In my left ear, I heard the nurse’s familiar voice assuring me, “It’s OK, Jamie. Everything’s fine. Just relax.”
Finally, I shifted my gaze and realized I was halfway between sitting up and lying down. My upper back rested upon the chair’s seat, while my core remained rigid like a bridge and my knees formed a perfect right angle above my feet, which were bolted to the linoleum floor. Apparently, I had started the fainting process, but then came to enough to catch myself. Literally.
Which explained the look of terror on the medical assistant’s face.
Semi-conscious and slipping down the chair to the floor, I’d reached out with my right arm and caught myself on her left upper thigh. My arm snaked around her leg, my hand gripping the inside of her knee. I may not have been the world’s strongest man, but I did wrestle in college and still worked out a few times per week; this tiny woman wasn’t going anywhere. Her terrified expression suggested a desire to call security.
Finally I let myself relax. I released her captive leg and slid to the floor, into which I wanted to dig a hole and flee down into whatever darkness I could find. I mean, seriously, what fucking grown man passes out while giving blood yet somehow manages to accost the medical professional helping deduce the source of his illness?
On the plus side, at least I didn’t piss myself this time.
I apologized profusely, but the staff members wouldn’t hear of it. They all got a good laugh, teasing the medical assistant who animatedly retold her version of events again and again. She no longer works there—which I hope is a coincidence—but every November when I come for my annual physical, the remaining veterans enjoy warning the new M.A. about The Fainter.
“My name is Jamie Reidy and it’s been five and a half years since my last needle-induced blackout.”
I dream of joining my father at his local Red Cross and proudly sporting that “Be nice to me! I gave blood today!” sticker for the rest of the day.
Maybe, having proven myself, I could then graduate to the top of the puncture pyramid: the spinal tap required for being a bone marrow donor.
Alas, I’m afraid I won’t.
—Photo widakso/Flickr
Justin, you are right: acupuncture would be “master class.” I am not surprised I didn’t think of it; dizzy right now!
Master class is when you let your acupuncturist friend give you a treatment.
Thank you for this profile in courage 🙂
I was a Hospital Corpsman in the Navy and you weren’t the only soldier that had serious needle problems. I’m not even too fond of being on the receiving end. what I never understood was, that the fainters were almost always GREAT BIG guys that could crush my head with one hand but cringed from little me and my needle.
I always believed that I was not one of “those guys” when it came time to give blood. I gave regularly in high school and then while I was in the Army National Guard (although I did pass out once while giving blood after a late night of drinking). Eventually, everyone in my battery had to take Combat Lifesaver training, where soldiers learn to give each other IVs in order to keep someone alive long enough for a medic to get to them later. I am not sure if you ever had to take this training, Jamie, but, rest assured,… Read more »
In Key West for vacay. En route to public beach we passed one of those blood drive vans! I briefly considered doing it… But chickened out.
Plus, my brother pointed out, the loss of blood might hinder my drinking ability later!
I had a big phobia of needles as a child, ran from school when we had the immunizations. It mellowed way down as an adult after I had an operation, I ended up asking NURSE!, PETHADINE! for the pain and not caring it was a needle. I still get nervous but I know they don’t hurt now (I guess my pain tolerance shot up), the automatic anxiety I have learned ways to lower it and now I am not afraid of needles. I am 6’6, and a large man, I was a large kid who people were intimidated by but… Read more »
Jamie, I love honesty. And I love humour. And I appreciate good writing.
So this piece was all “A” scores to me. 🙂
My wife is very afraid of needles, too, to the point of having to sit or lie down for blood draws, usually crying. Any tests that need blood draws, she tends to procrastinate on. It makes it all the more surprising that we ever became parents, because IVF requires a whole heap of daily shots, and we went through two cycles. If she had to give her own shots, I don’t think it could have happened, but I became the shot-giver and we had a whole routine to minimize the anxiety, from relaxing music and warming the dose (so it… Read more »
Did they not consider getting her a port?
When I was a fearful child, a savvy pediatrician decided that the best way to deal with the tearful lad perched on the treatment table was to make him part of the team. He’d slide the hypodermic needle into my arm and then cue me to depress the plunger. I felt real grownup. Getting shots was something I insisted I WASN’T afraid of. But, ultimately, I was. Going to movies where someone is shown shooting up, I close my eyes. And now, even though I need to have my blood tested monthly, I remain, well, not fearful…but squeamish. I’ll chat… Read more »
I gave blood only a few more times over the next three years, interestingly once in order to get out of the Army. I went faint-less on each occasion, thanks to having learned to vigorously flex my fingers and toes as a way of keeping my blood pressure up.
yeah, the fractured nature of feartriggering is annoying.
how the same set of circumstances that triggers fear on one day, does not on another day. or how being ‘fearless’ in one activity can often not bleedover to being ‘fearless’ in another activity.
humans are so poorly designed
Yeah, I’d be cool with some reengineering: taller, better hair, oh, and mad macho.
future humans are going to be so lucky.
theyll be able to reengineer themselves and be able to turn off the emotions, as easily as we flick a light switch, with thought.
Jamie.
Amazing. That’s all I can think to say.