At age twenty, no one should ever have a list of his or her top most painful experiences with needles. I can never look when a nurse draws my blood. I can hold my best friend’s hand when she’s getting her ear pierced by I dare not even glance in the direction of the piercing gun. I have thirteen piercings and only one of them makes the top three.
Age three: chemotherapy. They have been injecting me with this chemical crap for six months. I have no hair but I don’t notice. I am no different than anyone else. It’s my final treatment. My veins are tiny. The nurses look for a good one tirelessly. They stick me thirteen times before they find what they are looking for.
Age nineteen: nose piercing. I’ve wanted my nose pierced since the age of sixteen. Finally, I am away at college and ready puncture my face with a sparking silver jewel. My boyfriend has been appointed my moral support for the weekend. I squeeze the life out of his hand even before the needle comes in contact with skin. I spend the rest of the weekend in a semi-conscious state. The pain is so bad my vision is blurred and no amount of Motrin can give me relief.
Age nineteen, again: anti-inflammatory injections. Once again my genetics suck. The podiatrist tells me I have high arches, a bunion, holes in the bones of my ankles and the makings of a bone spur that will need surgery within the next year. He stabs my foot with one of the longest needles I’ve ever seen. The whole time I’m holding my breath, hiding my face with my fake-Burberry scarf and whispering, ‘nothing is worse than my nose, nothing is worse than my nose…”.
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Written for Personal Essay
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