Two summers ago, the back of my legs were completely smothered with a nasty pink rash. The bumpy dots were screaming with itch. Apparently, I was allergic to poison oak. I found that out the hard way. I’d had this rash for about 2 weeks and had been putting medicine on it. Nothing worked.
My mom finally decided that I needed to go to Urgent Care and get it looked at. Bright and early on that Saturday morning, we drove to Urgent Care and sat in the waiting room for about 20 minutes. The clicking of the secretary’s pen was driving me crazy. I concentrated on the paintings hanging on the wall across from me. The one to the left was a painting of an old man, sitting on a park bench with a lady beside him. The sun was setting in the background, a deep orange and purple. I remember thinking it reminded me of Forrest Gump, in the familiar scene, “My momma always said, ‘Life was like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.’”
“Anna Weir, we’re ready for you,” I heard a voice call as a large wooden door opened. A smiling, middle-aged white woman stood at the other side. Her bright white scrubs matched her teeth. My mom, younger sister, and I stood up and followed the woman to a room around the corner. Outside of the room hung two large numbers: 14. We walked in and the nurse asked me what the problem was. Of course, my mom, as moms usually do, jumped in right away.
“She’s had rashes on the back of her legs for about 2 weeks now. We’ve tried two different topical medicines and they’ve only gotten worse,” she explained.
After taking a look at my legs, the nurse said, “okay, well I think that the best option here is to get a steroid shot.” 
My stomach instantly dropped. I hated shots - and what the h*ll was a steroid shot, anyway? I took a deep breath and smiled at the nurse. If the shot was the only way to get rid of these disgusting bumps consuming my body, I guess I would have to suck it up.
I was informed that I would have to get the shot through my butt, which made everything almost ten times worse. The nurse laid me down on a bed in room 14, my mother and sister still sitting on the couch, watching me. As I was laying on the bed on my stomach, I glanced over at my sister who held up her hands, indicating how big the needle was. Great. She mouthed the words “9 inches,” her eyes wide. I could tell she was enjoying the view of my discomfort, she probably found this whole situation entertaining. My mom reprimanded her. “Maggie, stop it!”
I don’t particularly remember the needle insertion so well, however, I do remember feeling lightheaded immediately after.
“All done,” the nurse said. A feeling of relief washed over me, it wasn’t so bad after all. I stood up and thanked her. Her and my mom talked a little bit more and we walked back out the door, back around the corner, and back through the large wooden door. I saw the paintings to my right and my head started to throb. My mom went up to the front desk to pay and I started walking outside, passing through a glass door. I began waddling, my body feeling like it was 1000 pounds. My eyes were sensitive to the piercing light coming through the window and I gave up. I fell and hit my head on the wall on the way down. Everyone around me was yelling and the nurse, my mom, and the pen-clicking lady, ran to my side. They lifted me up onto a gurney and were frantically talking over each other, their words sounding only like murmurs to me.
I opened my eyes to two nurses in white scrubs dabbing my head with a wet cloth.
“Are you okay sweetie?” the nurse on the left asked me.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I replied, confused on what happened. The nurse explained to me that I had passed out. She said I was probably too worked up about the shot without even realizing it. I’d never passed out before so this was a new experience to me.
After finally getting my bearings and feeling better, we left Urgent Care. My mom took us to Ben and Jerry’s after that where I ordered a creamy chocolate chip cookie dough concrete.
After about a week and a half, the rash had finally completely cleared up. We found out that my exposure to poison oak happened when I was doing yard work with my dad. I got out of doing yard work forever more, at least the pulling weeds part. My sister envies me for this, I think. However, if you’ve ever been shot in the butt, it’s not a pleasant thing, and I would gladly trade tugging some weeds out of the ground over it.
I’d never passed out until this incident, and never since. I think that it’s funny when people talk about their tragic passing out stories - mostly starting with intense work out or seeing blood. But my experience was different. I learned from it that my intolerance for needles hadn’t changed since I was little and afraid of receiving shots or giving blood. I learned that my body responded poorly to Poison Oak. And most of all, I learned that it’s a funny story to tell.