The Doctor is Out

By Joy Des Jardins of Joy of Six

When I was a kid, I was scared to death of doctors. Doctors meant uncomfortable examinations, poking and prodding in places reserved for private eyes only, disgusting tasting medicines and SHOTS! - the bane of my existence. Those needles were instruments of torture being jabbed into arms, legs, butts, one can only imagine what else - oh the horror!

Barbaric rituals, I thought. I was just a little kid; I didn’t have a prayer in hell. None of us little kids did. I’d lose massive amounts of sleep on the days prior to a doctor appointment -.freaked out with worry and trying to conjure up a credible excuse to present to my mother for not going.

My attempts, as brilliantly thought out as they were, always fell on deaf ears. When all else failed, I believe my pattern was to whimper in the car all the way to the doctor’s office in one last attempt to break through to my mother - futile. Another lamb led to the slaughter.

I wasn’t the only one feeling this way. I had friends. And there were others. We were a club - a club of little people who banned together to condemn the injustice of it all. We talked. We shared stories and swapped possible excuses. I don’t remember one success story in the bunch. We were doomed and we knew it.

Looking back, I believe my fear of needles and shots probably originated when I was very small. I’ve written before about my cinder-eating days as a tot when my mother used to put me in our backyard in my stroller to get a “a little healthy sun.” Those outings usually ended up the same way every time. Me with a black ring around my mouth from munching on cinders that covered a goodly portion of our meager backyard, instead of grass.

Apparently my mother, the same lady who wouldn’t know a good excuse if she heard one, didn’t seem to be too worried about it, and kept returning me to the scene of the crime. Long story short: I wound up with a lovely bowel infection that required my getting penicillin shots in my butt for weeks; as the story goes. I was really too little to recall the whole ordeal, but I DO remember those shots and how they hurt - little or not. Yeah, I think I can pretty much point to this nightmare as the catalyst of my distaste of doctors and shots.

During my days in grammar school (today we call them elementary schools), it was common to get vaccinated for polio right in school. What a slap in the face! I felt like nowhere was safe. Now they were bringing the torture to us, at school. Lines and lines of us kids, all holding our little permission notes from home; panic in our faces, sweat on our brows, and fear in our hearts. JUST WAITING.

I tried on more than one of those occasions to convince the nurse that my mother didn’t want me to have the shot. “My mom says, No Thank You.” Only to be betrayed by the lies in my mother’s note.

When I was about eight or nine I had this rusty old bike that I used to ride around the neighborhood on. It was a little too big for me, but it was the first bike I remember riding before I got my brand new, shiny blue Schwinn for my birthday.

On this particular day, I parked my bike in front of my friend’s house like so many times before. Only this time I apparently didn’t click the kickstand all the way down and as I turned to walk, the bike fell on me. A piece of metal from the kickstand plate gouged a nickel-sized hole in the back of my left leg. I quickly glanced down, and that was enough. This was not going to be good.

With tears running down my cheeks and blood streaming down my leg, I rode home. The whole ride home all I could think about was, “Oh no, wait till Mom sees this. She’ll take me to the doctor for sure.” I think that was the reason for the tears more than anything.

Well, the Gods must have been looking down on me that day. When I got home my mother was out, but my brother and cousin were there. I immediately showed my brother, Ken. When I saw his reaction, it confirmed what I already knew: I was in trouble. The begging began.

“Please, please, don’t tell Mom. You fix it, Ken. Put some iodine on it and a BandAid. Please, please.”

Somehow that seemed like a reasonable request. And, miracle of miracles, that’s just what Ken did, albeit reluctantly. With nothing short of a blood oath from my cousin, Mike, not to tell, I felt relief.

I don’t know how I made it past inspection that first day, but by the second day my mom noticed the BandAid. With a lump in my throat and my heart beating out of my chest, I told her that I fell and hurt myself playing outside and Ken fixed it up. Amazingly, she took the bait. It wasn’t until a couple of days later that she questioned me again.

“Just how did you hurt yourself again? Let me take a look at it.”

What stopped my mom from passing out is beyond me. Maybe it was all the oxygen she was getting by screaming. I don’t know. I WAS DEAD, and on my way to the doctor’s office.

My mother was fairly incoherent a good portion of the car ride, and at the doctor’s. To this day I consider it a blessing that I didn’t understand what was coming out of her mouth when the doctor told her I needed stitches, but that it was too late for that. I would have a scar.

He cleaned it all up, did some fancy maneuvering with a bandage, and prescribed some kind of horse pills for me to take for the next couple of weeks to prevent infection. Oh, and yes - HE GAVE ME A SHOT IN MY ARM! The very thing I was trying to prevent in the first place by recruiting Dr. Ken.

I don’t know when it was that my mother calmed down. I tried to stay out of her way - and ear range. One thing I know - she had no one to blame but herself. Remember the cinders, Mom?

[EDITORIAL NOTE: I will be away for ten days or so in mid-August and it would be good to have some extra stories in the bin for while I'm gone. You know what to do; just click the "story submission" link in the upper left corner here.]

Comments

[Kay Dennison]

I used to hate shots, too, Joy!!!!!!

The worst part about the ones at school was getting teased if you cried so in addition to pain you felt humiliation.

Now, after all I've been through in my life I just stick out my arm when the doc appears with a needle.

Funny how life changes, huh?

Thanks for a great story, Joy

[kenju]

Joy, that was a great read! I hated shots (like all kids) but I was never able to talk anyone out of them either. In college, I got "run down" and had to have vitamin B12 shots every week for about six months. They really hurt!! I decided not to get run down anymore!

[Darlene]

It's odd how someone else's story can bring back memories long forgotten. I do remember the Polio epidemic and getting vaccinated in school. We were also vaccinated for TB and had to line up for the torture.

Your recounting of your experience is very funny. Thanks for a memory; albeit, an unpleasant one.

[Ritergal]

Oh, did you hit a muscle along with a nerve in this story. I was super skinny, with hardly any flesh on my arm to receive those horrid TYPHOID shots I had to get so we could safely camp in the NM mountains.

The hard-hearted mom, rusty bike, blood down your leg, swearing a cousin to secrecy -- this all sounds so familiar. You've written the story of every kid who grew up in the fifties.

Come to think of it, I wonder if they still use parent permission slips like that. Back then it wouldn't occur to us to "lose" them. Today? Probably a different story.

[Joy]

Thanks so much Kay, Kenju, Darlene and Ritergal,

I guess I'm not really surprised that so many of us experienced the same feelings way back then...considering how incredibly strong mine were. Maybe kids feel the same way today about going to the doctor, but it doesn't seem to be at the same level I remember....even though NO ONE likes shots!

And you're right, Ritergal, it never occured to me to lose that stupid permission slip....not once. I guess we all were more afraid of the reprecussions from doing something like that than from the actual terror of the shot.

So glad we could share these memories ladies....you all would have been part of my "little people's club" back then.

[Nancy]

Joy,

You brought back a lot of memories to me,too. I didn't really get a lot of shots in my childhood. Unfortunately, we got the DISEASE! There were no shots against measles,mumps, whooping cough, chicken pox. I got all of those diseases and so did my brothers and sister.
In the early 50's Dr Jonas Salk came out with a "shot" against Polio. All of my children were under the care of a pediatrician who wanted me to have them inoculated . The problem was that the first vaccines were made with too many "Live" polio viruses and the children who were given that shot actually got polio.
I didn't know what to do. Then it struck me! My young doctor and his wife had tried for several years to conceive a child and had succeeded. They had a beautiful two year old boy. I asked the doctor if he had given his boy the Salk vaccine and he said,"No". I told him to call me the day he gave the shot to his son and I would bring my kids in then.
Six months went by and one day my phone rang and it was the Pediatrician telling me that he had given his boy the polio vaccine. I made an appointment right then and there and took my kids the next day for their shots.
I had forgotten this until I read your interesting and well written story and it all came rushing back.
I love these memories. It brings back the days of my kids' childhoods.

[Joy]

Nancy....you are a very wise woman. There were some scary times back then, weren't there? Thanks so much for your personal story....we all have our memories...good and bad. Take care...

[travelinoma]

I remember a knee injury I handled myself when I was about 8 just to avoid the iodine. After a week the wound was leaking green pus all down my leg. My mom hauled me to the doctor and he first cleaned all the gravel out of it with a wire brush, and then gave me a shot. While he was out of the room preparing it I hid under the sink (behind the little drapes they had instead of a cupboard.) My mom and the doctor dragged me out, screaming at the top of my lungs and I kicked him! He wasn't gentle as he stabbed my behind.

I was terrified of shots after that (before that, too) and twelve years later I had my first baby, breach, and refused any kind of drugs. It was all to avoid a shot. After labor, delivery, episiotomy (sp?) and stitches, all without a thing to relieve the pain, a nurse walked in with a giant needle and gave me a shot to contract my uterus. All that avoidance, and I still got stuck. What irony!

[Joy]

You were one tough cookie....and still got stuck Marty...YIKES. I could feel your panic.