duck-shaped pain

All day, I knew it was coming. Despite all attempts to reckon with myself (it'll only take a minute, if I don't see it coming, it won't hurt as much, it can't hurt as much as taking my lower lip and stretching it over the top of my head), I still dreaded it and everything I did prior to it on that day was colored by my anticipation.

3 o'clock. Time to breathe in and face it.

Driving down to the doctor's office, I was nervous. I'm always nervous when I have to get a shot. [1] I drove more tensely than usual: changing lanes often, worrying about where I'm going to turn to go into the clinic parking lot (a strange worry considering that I've lived here, off and on, for about 18 years), going into total ADD mode when changing stations on the radio.

The woman at the front desk was the same as always. Despite frequent relocations of the clinic, the front desk lady is a constant -- less an employee than an installation. As usual, she had to do the total rundown on my current address, work information, next of kin and insurance information. Then she stared at me a bit, like I was part of the print on the wall (rough pencil drawing of old-timey children dressed up doctors) or the ceiling (white, stuccoed). "Oh yes," she said, "go to the left."

I did. I sat. I listened to people complain about their injuries. A 15-year-old who had taken it in the privates with a baseball. Another woman with a large stack of crumpled papers. "All the prescriptions I've ever been given in my life," she explained.

My name -- the unwanted name -- was called. There are some places that I can't get away from it. I was assessed, weighed, poked, and then put in a room.

My doctor (of sorts) came in. I've been seeing the same guy for years, even though he's not really a doctor -- a physician's assistant, rather. He's tall, spindly, always wears plaid shirts and tan crepe-soled shoes, and has a deep, mellow, All Things Considered voice. He nods a lot and doesn't say much. But I always get assigned to him, no matter what.

"So, you're here to get vaccinations," he said. I gave him my list of recommended shots, culled from the local health department and the CDC website. He flipped through the pages and nodded and seemed to be in deep, deep thought.

"Okay. Someone will be here in a sec to poke you."

Seconds turned into minutes, which became long, uncomfortable pauses which eventually became an hour-and-a-half. I had accidentally left my journal at home in the scanner (long story), so I couldn't write in it. My current book was not thrilling me in the way that I required at the moment. And the only magazines available were icky parenting ones. I guess since I was still wearing my clothes, I could have roamed around for something to read, but I knew that the moment I left would be the exact moment Shot Lady showed up to administer my vaccines. So I stayed and fretted, working up a heady froth, until she showed up.

Shot Ladies (they're always women, at least in my experience) are perky. They smile and pretend nothing is wrong, even as they wave livestock-sized needles around in the air. Their favorite phrase is "just a tiny poke." They always make me nervous. Mine was no different. She marched in like unwanted sunshine and laid down the syringes in front of me.

"Okay, we didn't have the typhoid in stock, so you'll have to go down the health department and get those. But I did manage to find your polio booster and the first of the hepatitis A series." [2] She gave me photocopied information sheets on both shots, both set in Happy Fonts and decorated with trite medical clip art.

I had to take my shirt off, as the sleeves were not cooperating. She snuck up behind me (I warned her that I needed to be taken by surprise) and then poke poke - one in the right shoulder, one in the left.

"Now, that wasn't that bad, was it?" she asked.

Yes, it was.

Then she left and I had to wait for my doctor to come in. This took a while. Finally, he came in, handed me a prescription for malaria pills, and then slapped me on the back with a hearty grin. "Have a good time! Don't get sold into white slavery!"

Five people, all completely unrelated to each other, have told me the exact same thing in the last few months: my grandmother, my co-worker L., last year's guest diarist J., the woman at the bookstore where I bought my phrase book, and now my doctor. It must be contagious.

[1] I've expounded on my hatred of needles before -- the best explanation can be found at the bottom (actually, first to last paragraph, not including the footnote) of this entry.

[2] Had a tetanus shot when I broke my leg, measles booster a couple of years before that, which helped cut down on the number of shots I had to get Friday, thankfully.

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