I do not like pain. If there is such a thing as the opposite of a masochist, that would be me. Let me give you an example. As a little girl, I always had short hair. This was not my choice, it was my mother’s. She made it implicitly clear that until I could wash, brush, and style my own hair, it would be trimmed regularly by Colleen at Snippers in Sacks. Colleen[1] was cute and young, and even though she had long, blonde, feathered Farrah Fawcett locks, she never made me feel bad about having short hair. She would do her best to tame my ridiculous cowlick, and would even go so far as to French Braid a small section of my hair, add a bow and some Baby’s Breath, so that I could feel like I had long hair, too.
Unfortunately, other children my age were not fooled by the braid or the flowers and, for the most part, ridiculed me constantly for having short hair. “Only boys have short hair” was a pretty popular point-of-view for little girls in the 1970s. Even with Dorothy Hamill skating her way into the hearts of every American girl and gay boy, it was apparently okay for her to have short hair, but not me. Maybe if I had been an Olympic gold medalist, my hair would’ve been praised and coveted, but in the absence of any world class awards, my short hair was mocked, laughed at and ridiculed.
Not that I minded all that much. I was an active kid, spending approximately 85% of my young life in the pool, and short hair worked well. It was never in my eyes, I never needed any accessories to keep it out of my way, and I had no use for a blow dryer. True, when at my friend Liz’s Birthday Pool Party in Third Grade, I was the only girl not able to flip her wet hair into a silly George Washington curl like all of the other attendees, but I could do a back flip off the diving board which was LEAPS AND BOUNDS[2] cooler, so that was okay.
However, when I finally hit that magical age where I could choose my own hair length, I immediately began growing it out. I was SO OVER having everyone think I was a boy. I was going to have long hair, and no one would ever tease me again. What I did not know at the time was that it really doesn’t matter what length your hair is, children will find your fatal flaw and make your life a misery for as long as you let them. Yes, children are evil. If you disagree with that statement, then you either don’t remember being one, or you don’t have any of your own.
As my mother had warned me, with long hair comes lengthy responsibilities. If neglected, your hair can make your life miserable. I learned this lesson the hard way when I went to visit my dad in Flagstaff, AZ. You may, or may not, be aware that Flagstaff, unlike Phoenix or Tucson, isn’t always hot. It even snows there in the winter. A LOT. And snow is cool for a lot of reasons, but it definitely has its drawbacks. Number one disadvantage being, it is very, very cold. For a girl who grew up at the beach wearing a handkerchief halter tops, OPs and flip flops, I wasn’t adequately prepared for the copious amount of clothing one needs to wear in order not to freeze to death. So, my wardrobe for Flagstaff was made up of turtlenecks, scarves, and big puffy ski jackets. All of which had much more material around the neck area than I was used to. The problem was my new long hair got tangled on day one of the trip. And, because I don’t like pain[3] I neglected to brush it out. Big mistake. About day three I was aware that a giant dreadlock was forming at the base of my neck. However, my hair was long enough to conceal my new Rastafarian appendage and no one would be the wiser. I thought I was pretty clever. I wasn’t. What I thought would eventually happen to my “rat’s nest,” as my mother called it, I’m not sure. All I knew was brushing it out was not an option. That would’ve hurt WAY too much.
Well, when I arrived home two weeks later, the shit hit the fan. My mom completely lost it when she saw that just underneath the top layer of finely groomed hair was a tangle so massive that it could not be brushed out. Try as she may, all the No More Tears Detangler in the universe would’ve helped my knotty predicament. Of course, the fact that I shrieked in pain every time she attempted to put a comb through it didn’t help either. Once we had exhausted all other options, there was only one other course of action left. The very next day we paid a visit to Colleen and she proceeded to cut off my giant dread, and all of the other long hair I had managed to grow out as well with it. It was a sad day in Snippers, but it had to be done.
Well, my tender head was not the only part of my anatomy that was super sensitive to pain. I found out early on that visits to Dr. Nierenberg, my pediatrician, could be painfully unpredictable. Sometimes he’d just listen to my heart, make me jump around, and then give me a lollipop. Other times, visits would include a round of inoculations that involved stabbing me with giant pointy needles which varied anywhere from, “Gee, I didn’t even feel that” to “Ow, you’re really hurting me, please stop” sobs of suffering. These shots were mostly administered in the examination room, so when a nurse came in with a needle my usual response was to burst into tears.
However, as much as I disliked shots, I absolutely HATED having my blood drawn. Some sadistic nurse, who always looked very pretty and nice, would take me from the examination room down the hall to the “Lab.” In my mind, the “Lab” was nurse code for medieval torture chamber. Nothing pleasant ever occurred in the “Lab.” Once inside the room, I was instructed to sit on a stool close to the counter which was covered with glass vials, glass slides, and other pokey stuff, because if you were led into the “Lab” you WOULD be poked.
The poking was almost exclusively used to draw blood, an ancient torture technique used to make prisoners of war divulge government secrets that I learned later was called the “Fingerprick Blood Test.” Doesn’t sound so bad, does it? Well, I can tell you, it was EXCRUCIATING.[4] In an effort to lull unassuming children[5] into a sense of false security, the nurses, who by the way, were always smiling; all wore the exact same nurse’s outfit, including the hat, as Nurse Dixie on Emergency! Nurse Dixie would never hurt anyone who came into her hospital. However, there was one thing the real nurses at Dr. Nierenberg’s office had that Nurse Dixie didn’t; every single one of them had long, fake, red nails. I don’t know if this was office policy or just some sick inside joke amongst the evil blood-letters, but it is something I will forever associate with pain, that’s for sure.
So, 70s Porno Nurse would ask for your finger, and she’d let you choose[6] the finger you would be wearing a Band-Aid on for the remainder of the day.[7] Next, she’d clean the area with a sterile swab and proceed to squeeze the tip of your finger so hard it turned white. Then, from out of nowhere she’d poke you with a needle[8] that she must’ve been concealing somewhere because I’d never see it until it was in my finger. Perhaps the nursing school also included a course in sleight-of-hand, I don’t know for sure. Once the pin was removed an enormous bead of bright red blood emerged from my fingertip which the nurse would smear onto a glass slide or two. Sometimes they even needed to prick more than one finger to get all the blood they needed. Evil vampire nurses. As tears rolled down my cherubic cheeks, the nurse would inflict her final crushing blow by wiping my bleeding fingertip with an alcohol-soaked gauze pad, causing the already throbbing digit sting like a motherfucker.[9] Then came the obligatory Band-Aid and lollipop consolation prize which IN NO WAY could ever make up for the fact that BITCH purposefully inflicted pain on me AND managed to make me cry. It’s no wonder I never became a nurse. I could never be that nefarious.
Thankfully, now that I am all grown up, I have absolutely no problem having my blood taken. True, they don’t do the Fingerprick Blood Test on me anymore; they just siphon it out of a nice juicy vein as God intended. Perhaps it’s because I’ve had FAR WORSE pain inflicted upon me by all sorts of different medical professionals as I’ve gotten older. Or maybe I’m not as sensitive to pain as much as I was when I was little. But either way, the memory of the wicked, dragon-clawed nurses of Dr. Nierenberg office will always be with me…haunting my worst nightmares.
[1] Colleen’s favorite band was Quarterflash and she had a small picture of Rindy Ross on the bottom right hand side of her mirror. Not surprisingly, “Harden My Heart” was one of my early favorites.
[2] Literally.
[3] AHA! I bet you thought I forgot about my initial topic. Didn’t you?
[4] You may think I am exaggerating, but I’m not.
[5] Like me.
[6] How very gracious of her.
[7] If you were very careful and didn’t lose it in the bathtub that evening, it was possible to wear the Band-Aid to school the next day. So you could share your trauma with your classmates.
[8] That looked exactly like a push pin, and I am still not convinced it wasn’t swiped off the bulletin board that displayed all the happy children Dr. Nierenberg treated. Without a doubt, these photos were taken BEFORE any blood test or inoculation.
[9] While you’re at it, why not give me a nice paper cut and pour lemon juice on it?
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