alexpgp | LJ Idol 6.3: The secret of getting stuck...

In a dim memory from my early childhood, I recall being in a clean, brightly lit room with my mom. We are there with a man, who is dressed in white and wears the shiniest black shoes. This man has my undivided trust, because at that age, anyone who gives you lovely, sweet, multicolored lollipops for sitting still while he puts tubes in his ears and listens to your chest or while he puts a wooden ice cream stick in your mouth while you try to say "Ahhh!" must be a pretty fine person.

On this day, however, the nice man was holding something new in his hand. It was about the size of a pen, and it seemed to have a needle sticking out of one end. Taking hold of my arm, and without a word of warning, he buried the needle in my tender bicep.

I was too shocked to react immediately, but not too shocked to remember the experience.

From that point on, it seemed every visit to a doctor ended in a shot, and I most seriously did not look forward to them. But there was nothing I could do to avoid them, either. Crying did not help. Pleading was of no avail. I was doomed.

Several years later, at the office of my grandmother's ear-nose-and-throat doctor, I had my adenoids removed. It wasn't a very pleasant experience, but on the whole, it didn't hurt much, either. Shortly after the doctor put away his instruments, he turned around, holding a large hypodermic syringe, and instructed me to take off my pants, and my underpants, so he could give me an injection in my backside. I had never heard of such a thing, but the doctor insisted.

My actions spoke louder than any words I could conjure. I kicked him in the shins and drove my shoes down onto his toes. Before either he or my mother could recover, I ran to the door of his surgery and out into the waiting room. Powdered old ladies and elegant old gentlemen of my grandmother's age seemed mostly amused by my valiant, yet doomed resistance. Eventually, my mother captured me and dragged me back to face my comeuppance, and the penicillin.

It should come as no surprise, then, that when our Senior Drill Instructor announced that our recruit platoon had "volunteered" to donate blood I was less than gung ho (as they say in the Marines) about the prospect, but there was nothing to be done. I had no great phobia about getting injected; in fact, shortly after arrival at boot camp, we all received a battery of injections, many of them administered using compressed air, and I had made it through okay. I had never given blood, though, and the prospect made me apprehensive.

The Naval hospital in Beaufort, South Carolina, admitted us in the early afternoon.

"Have you ever had syphilis, hepatitis, or have you been tattooed in the last six months?" intoned a bearded corpsman from behind a portable metal desk, reviewing a form I had filled out.

"Sir, no, sir!"

"Go to room twelve, private," said the corpman.

"Sir, yes, sir!"

Once in room 12, those of us who were eligible to donate blood had our fingers pricked to aid in blood typing. We sat down to wait, contemplating our index fingers.

"Number thirty-one!" cried a voice from somewhere in the room. Thirty-one was my so-called "laundry number," which served a number of other purposes as well, as in the present case. I stood up and raised my hand, as we had been instructed to do.

"Over here!" commanded a white-coated, jean-clad Figure of Authority on the other side of the room.

I wound past my platoon-mates, who lay enmeshed in tangles of plastic tubing, impaled with rather sizeable needles. I could feel my blood shift from side to side in my body, away from these needles as I passed them, I was sure of it.

"Lie down," ordered the corpsman who had called out my number. I did so, closing my eyes and wondering whether the level of adrenalin in my blood was high enough to dissolve plastic tubing. The corpsman fussed with my arm.

"You're pretty tense," he said. "Have you ever given blood before?"

"Sir, no, sir," I said, not quite so loudly as usual.

"You want to know a little secret about how to avoid pain when getting stuck?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" I said. The exclamation point was back in my words.

"I want you to smile," said the corpsman. "Close your eyes, think of something happy, and then smile like your mouth is trying to make your cheeks come up and cover your eyes. You got that?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

"Good. Do it," he said, "while I adjust your arm."

I did as instructed - though I felt a little silly - and after a few moments, I opened my eyes and looked down. The needle was already in place. I hadn't felt a thing.

As I watched, I saw my blood - more of it than I had ever seen at one time - start flowing out of my arm, through a tube, and into a pint-sized plastic collection bag. I was only able to tear my eyes away when the corpsman who had engineered this medical marvel turned to a colleague and asked, "Hey, do I have this guy hooked up right?"

When I turned to him with a horrified look, he smiled and said, "Just messin' with you, recruit. Relax." I tried, but I couldn't shake the feeling that he had said what he did to raise my blood pressure, perhaps to make the bag fill faster. Whatever the reason, he succeeded.

A few minutes later, with a sterile cotton ball pressed into the crook of my elbow, I entered the "recovery room" where... glory!... they were issuing one warm can of Coca-Cola and three chocolate cream cookies to each of us and ordering us to consume them! Doctor's orders!

I had gone through a real fast second childhood in that hospital, and had learned a secret of getting "stuck" without experiencing pain. It's funny where you learn things.

Our platoon was back on the bus in no time at all, headed back to Parris Island.