There is pain involved in being a woman and more than simply that of giving birth and I don’t understand why anyone would sign on for this.
I’m a woman and I should know.
Twice in the past week I’ve been forced to totally embarrass myself simply because I’m a woman and choose to live as one.
We, as women, have this fight or flight thing that comes standard with the package. Most times we choose the flight. Fighting may cause the loss of a heel, a broken nail, or worse. Wait. There is nothing worse than a broken nail.
There I was. At the lab. Waiting to have my blood drawn for my quarterly check of vitamins, minerals, cholesterols, sugar, man genes, and what I’ve chosen to eat in the past three months.
I used to require accompaniment by a responsible person to have labs done. When I went to have blood work done before I married (yes, I am that old), my fiancé went with me. Bless his heart. After the fifth stick he offered to give them some of his blood. It wasn’t allowed so I fainted.
Anyway, back to this week. When they called me back for the sticking procedure, I went freely and under my own power. The normal sticker was on vacation so I got the newbie. (BHH)
I showed her the one good vein I have left. I told her they use a butterfly needle. She complied. She stuck my good vein and it blew rendering it useless.
She looked and found another vein in the same arm but below the elbow. She stuck it. After my screaming awoke everyone in the office and those in the local cemeteries, she removed the needle. She told me I could come back on Monday. I offered a third vein, on the other arm. She looked, decided it was good and asked my permission to stick me. I said sure, “Why the hell not?”
She stuck, got all the blood she needed, removed the needle, patched me up, and I peed all over myself. I then proceeded to throw up nothing as I was fasting at the time, and faint on her. Sometime later she gave me a huge disk of what she said was glucose but wouldn’t let me leave. The entire time I was embarrassing myself she was telling me how normal this reaction is. Hey nice lady, I should know.
She eventually gave me a paper gown so I wouldn’t be embarrassed when I left. Though her offer was sweet, totally embarrassment had already happened.
A few days later, bruises intact, I had an appointment to get my nails done. Those who know me know that I am not me without my nails. I have them done every two weeks, without fail.
Most of you may not relate fight or flight with having your nails done. You are wrong.
I walked into the salon, sat down, and held my hands out. So far so good.
Anna, my nail tech is the best. She works hard, is a single mother, and I love her – even when she laughs at my fear of pain.
She always looks at the nails before deciding which torture device to use. If she reaches for the lidded jar full of disinfectant, my fight or flight response kicks in.
She did just that and came out with the silver nippers. She then put my hand in a vice grip and began clipping off any ragged edges from my nails – near my cuticles.
I turned my head, cringed, and began to scream. Fortunately the nearest cemetery is ten blocks away. I tried to snatch my hand free. The grip of her vice-like hands held tight. She laughed at me every time I screamed.
Once the ragged edges were gone she grabbed the grinder and worked on what wasn’t ragged.
Occasionally I was able to sit still and let her grind. And then there were the other times.
Today I have gorgeous nails and she remains intact without bruises.
I freely submit to these things that bring about my fight or flight response. I schedule the appointments. I walk in under my own steam. I even pay huge wads of money for the latter. My insurance takes care of the former with their huge wads of money.
Now I have to ask, “Why, Caitlyn. What the hell?”
From the life and mind of Wanda M. Argersinger
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