Aichmophobia (pronounced [īk-mō-fō′bē-ă]) is a kind of specific phobia, the morbid fear of sharp things, such as pencils, needles, knives, a pointing finger, or the sharp end of an umbrella
Actually, reading that definition, I know it’s definitely not that. THAT is sort of funny, not to be insensitive to those afraid of pointy umbrellas. I know phobias are real and alive and ruin people’s lives daily. It’s funny to me, because Google always gives me dramatic answers for what I’m looking for. So when I searched for “is my daughter afraid of needles?“, I got that. When all I really needed to hear, was “no”.
July 3, 2009
It was Brandon and I’s first family style trip. 7 hours one way in a car with two kids that were fairly new to his life. One for the memory books in ways we weren’t prepared for. Both awesome, and not-so.
Kyanne was playing on the playground in my hometown of Cody, Wyoming. I was visiting with an old friend nearby when I heard her scream. I ran over, to find one of her teeth missing, her lip split open, and blood everywhere. I actually didn’t overreact. I held her on my lap in the park, trying to stop the bleeding to see how bad it really was. It was me that suggested we wait it out, and the friends of mine that suggested we walk across the street to the emergency room. Once there, I knew they were right.
Kyanne needed stitches. Being the less than graceful mama, I knew from several experiences that it wouldn’t be too bad. What I wasn’t prepared for, was her inheritance of both my lack of grace, and my immunity to novacane. While Brandon took LeynaBug to get the car (8 blocks away, thank everything…they missed most of this), I had to hold Kyanne down on top of me, both of us laying on our backs, while they tried to give her 5 shots of novacane. She felt every stab, and then got 3 stitches with no numbness. It scarred, but more emotionally than physically.
As you can see, not only did she get back up, she looked gorgeous in spite of our spinny little adventure. AND it cured her of her need of a pacifier.
A month later, it took my mom and dad stepping into the hospital and holding her down to get the stitches back out, because she was so absolutely terrified of doctors, anything sharp, and anything near her mouth, that she refused to lay still, and my physical and emotional strength was zapped.
Everybody says that the experience was harder on me than her, and that she was so young that she’d eventually just get over it. She remembers every single detail about that day, including the fact that it was a “blue airplane” that bucked her off.
To this day, she fears dentists, doctors, and needles. She calls them “pokes”.
That being said, today is the first time since that experience that she’s going to have to be “poked”. We have doctor’s appointments this afternoon to get three vaccinations. And after talking to two of my best friends this morning, we’ve come to the conclusions that I’m likely being dramatic and panicky and over-reactive. While I’ve definitely worried that she has PTSD, I’m pretty sure I’m actually the one with the “disability”.
She’s got this adorable scar on her lip, especially when she smiles.
And so, I write this blog not for your sympathy, but for your strength and understanding. I’ll be near tears this afternoon I’m sure, because all I can picture is both of us strapped to a backboard to keep her still while we prevent something as simple as chicken pox.
My mom always went with me to get shots. And I don’t remember much of it, except the stickers afterward were totally worth the trip. 🙂
I know that today will be fine and that we’ll walk out of that office in the same condition we walked in…only with a smaller chance of chicken pox. I know I’m being emotional and crazy. That’s pretty much me in a nutshell when it comes to my parenting (see: routine nazi, germaphobe, google master, and unnecessary trips to the doctor for flus and colds). BUT, today, I need you to bare with that, and offer up every bit of advice you’ve got. I need your success stories. I need comments that tell me if you remember getting shots when you were younger, and what YOUR parents did to better your experience!
Honest to blog, this storytelling is the type that makes me feel vulnerable and silly and exposed.