Trypanophobia

Trypanophobia is the extreme fear of needles.  I am referring to the injection and blood drawing needles, not the knitting needles.  I like knitting needles, but those other needles...not so much.  There are a lot of reasons for my fear, but I think the primary reason goes back to my childhood.  

I have written here about my mother the medical doctor.  For whatever reason, probably for the sake of convenience, my mother acted as our family doctor.  This included giving us all of our immunizations.  I did not do well with that.  I have a very vivid memory of my mother dragging me out from under the bed where I was trying to escape.  She had my ankle in one hand and the needle in the other.  Ugh. 

My mother was often on the telephone.  We had phones all over the house to enable her to  answer quickly one emergency after another.  One time, she was in the middle of her office hours (her office was in our home).  She was rushing from the living room back toward her office when the phone rang.  As I watched, she hurried to pick up the phone with one hand and somehow jabbed her other hand with the needle she was holding.  Just thinking about it makes me woozy.  Blech.

Over the years and my various medical adventures, I have met good and bad responses to my phobia.  Some doctors and nurses are understanding and patient.  Some are not accustomed to dealing with my brand of crazy.  Recently I had to have an IV in preparation for a medical procedure.  I explained, as I always do, to the nurse/technician/whatever he was, that I do not do well with needles, and that I would be looking away while he inserted the IV.  He said, "OK," then got the IV going somehow.  Sadly (for me), the next thing he said was, "It popped out."  It popped out.  When I awoke (and I was REALLY out, in a deep sleep of a dream about Moses and Noah and the Ark), I was surrounded by many white- jacketed folks.  They all agreed that I didn't need that IV after all.

I hate needles so much that I always begged my medical providers, including my dentist, to proceed with my care without anesthesia.  Some of them tried it, sometimes it worked.  My childhood dentist went along for a while until my screaming got to him.  His exact words were, "God damn, it, Vicky!!!"  From then on, he would not treat me unless I got the Novocaine.  

In an ill-conceived plan, I decided to cure my phobia by giving blood.  That adventure ended with the nurse advising me that it would be in everyone's best interest if I served my community in another way.  It seems that having all the staff attending to my hysteria wasn't helpful for them or beneficial to other donors.  

I know these damned implements are a medical necessity, but I don't have to like them.