I Hate Shots

My dislike for shots is overwhelmingly awful. Just the thought of having to get one induces extreme nausea and tears, without fail, every time. This is much more unfortunate with the resent outbreak of the infamous H1N1 illness. Keep in mind that my hate for shots is similar to the hate most people on Earth have for cancer or AIDS. This is unreasonable, and I get it.

With Swine Flu, came the vaccination. The news that there was a shot to stop this awful sickness made me sick. On top of that, I have asthma. And for those of you who didn’t know, asthmatics are at an even greater risk at the hands of H1N1 than those who aren’t. I am far more asthmatic than those people on the fast acting inhaler commercials. In fact, if we were to be compared to coins, their asthma would maybe be worth a quarter, while mine would be worth the illustrious Sacagawea golden dollar. If this comparison doesn’t allow you to imagine the magnitude of my situation, I do not know what will.

The week leading up to D-Day, the day on which I got my shot, was full of me giving my friends and family glimpses at pigs. I threw up for no reason once, and had a minor asthma attack at Thanksgiving dinner. This asthma attack, resulting in me and parents sprinting out of my Aunt Mary Jeanne’s like we had just eaten something resembling lime jello, was the real deal. It ended with me taking a nebulizer, over dosing on albuterol, and puking up everything I had eaten that day. And if one didn’t know, mashed potatoes are not cute coming back up. This along with the never ending headache in the back of my right eye led me to ask for a doctor’s appointment.

In a normal situation, I would not have asked for this. I hate the doctor, just because of my irrational fear of shots. But, the school had just administered vaccines to all of the willing students. Me not being one of the participants, allowed my mind not to get caught up in the idea having my arm ripped apart by some savage nurse with a three foot long needle.

My mother, however, took my request as the perfect chance to catch me by surprise. On D-Day, I was told I had a doctor’s appointment. I thought nothing of this, for I had personally asked to go.

There is no worse feeling, though, than being told on your way to your doc that your arm will be invaded with some sort of medicine. This not what a girl like myself needs to hear, and that news caused me to have a Rain Man-esque freak out. This did not stop until an hour after I got the shot. And, after overcoming one of my biggest fears for at least the tenth time in my life, I still never want to do that again.





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