THE NEEDLE AND THE ICE
Some of you already know that I'm a proponent of a healthy diet, specifically, the Mediterranean Diet. But that has not always been the case.
During my childhood, my grandmother would feed me the fruits of Grandpa's garden. My country was an agricultural country, and everything we ate was freshly grown or collected from a hen moments earlier. But when I moved to the United States, I was faced with a veritable cornucopia of new goodies! I proceeded to sample every bit junk food I could get my hands on - cookies, bagels, candy, ice cream. And the binging did not stop for a long time. Dinner might very well be a half gallon of ice cream and a box of Peppridge Farm cookies. Such a diet is most entertaining, but does have its consequences. I suffered terribly from hemorrhoids. Oy! That’s painful. It reached a point where I could take it no longer, and I decided to see a doctor. Now, I'm not much of a doctor person. I barely go for my required annual exams. And one reason I do not like doctors is because one must suspend any remaining vestige of modesty one might have, especially for an affliction such as mine. I don't care how much fantasizing one does about Brad Pitt, the positions one is required to assume can only be described as ignominious. For the vocabulary challenged, it means EMBARRASSING! So I went to my GP who duly examined me, and agreed that yes, this should be referred to a proctologist, and so off I went for another session of a challenge to my modesty. Another humiliating examination followed, and the specialist considered my affliction worthy of surgery, and promptly referred me to a surgeon. The surgeon, too, examined me, and proposed surgical removal. I was in such pain in those days that cutting them out seemed like a sane remedy.
I asked a few timid questions, ending up with, OK, so when do I report to the hospital? But he assured me that it would be performed right there in the office. In the office? Do you have a surgical suite here? I don't see any anesthesia machines? Oh, you won't need any anesthesia, I'll just give you a shot. You mean, with a needle? OK, I agreed, and dutifully stretched out my arm for the anticipated anesthetic. But he again corrected my perception. I am not going to put the needle in your arm. No? Where are you going to put it? Well, I'm going to put it there indicating a bit lower. Where there, I asked. There? THERE?!?!? You don’t mean - THERE! IT HURTS THERE! And off I went to wait out the next week until my torture was to begin.
The next week was hell. I could not sleep. I could not eat. I could not concentrate on my work. I could not SIT! – the only thing rattling in my brain was the upcoming needle THERE! I had some grim thoughts of ending it all so as to avoid the entire ordeal. But somehow my survival instinct took over, and the Thursday of The Deed was upon me. Oh, what shall I do, how shall I survive, OMG!
And then, I got it. I got an idea that would save me from ending my life and would prepare me for The Needle. I’ll do what I did when I pierced my ears! So showed up at the office promptly at my appointed time with a tall glass full of fresh ice cubes that I got in one of the machines downstairs! They were crisp and clinky and very cold. I checked in and was instructed to do what people do in doctors' waiting rooms: wait. By the time I was called in, my hand was frozen numb, and I was holding a very large glass of water. Dejected, defeated, broken, now all but resigned to my fate, I slowly walked into the doctor's office holding my glass of water, and the doctor gave me a curious look. I sheepishly handed him the glass of water with a panicked look on my face. Even in those days, there was that freezing spray they use to numb locally, but I didn't know that at the time. When I explained my plan, he found some tiny slivers of ice left in the glass, which he took and gently placed “there” before walking in front of me to load the syringe by plunging the hair-like needle into the vial. Is that the needle, I asked, now thoroughly ashamed of the anxiety I had suffered. Why didn't you tell me last week?!
Of course, I felt like a jerk, but the doctor never raised an eyebrow. That, ladies and gentlemen, is bedside manner. I’m still in love with him.
MORAL OF THE STORY: Eat your vegetables!
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