Kings of Leon
When I was in 7th grade, my home economics teacher showed us a video about AIDS. One part of the video outlined different ways in which AIDS can be contracted. A short clip showed a young boy and girl becoming "blood brothers;" what I assume was ketchup had been dabbed unconvincingly on their forearms. I remember putting my head down on my desk to avoid the image-- the next thing I remember is waking up to rows of black Converse and whispering 12-year-olds. I was face down on the floor in the aisle of the classroom, sweating somewhat uncontrollably and trying not to cry. My first fainting episode.
When I was in 7th grade, my home economics teacher showed us a video about AIDS. One part of the video outlined different ways in which AIDS can be contracted. A short clip showed a young boy and girl becoming "blood brothers;" what I assume was ketchup had been dabbed unconvincingly on their forearms. I remember putting my head down on my desk to avoid the image-- the next thing I remember is waking up to rows of black Converse and whispering 12-year-olds. I was face down on the floor in the aisle of the classroom, sweating somewhat uncontrollably and trying not to cry. My first fainting episode.
A few months later my now-13-year-old self, in the midst of one of Senor Martin's Spanish quizzes, nobly tried to sharpen a pencil with my fingernail. Not surprisingly I missed; the tip of the pencil lodged neatly underneath the nail of my pointer finger. Perhaps because of my episode only two months earlier, the "faint radar" in my brain clicked into high gear and I immediately felt dizzy. I stayed in my seat hoping the feeling would pass, but when I realized I was only feeling worse I stood and started to walk to my teacher's desk. About 3 feet from his computer, I collapsed. Hyperventilating, I stayed in on the floor in the corner of the room until the janitor came to pick me up and take me to the front office. In the janitor's cart.
It didn't happen again for a few years in an embarrassing capacity, although fainting at the doctor's office has become second nature. Any time I have to see a doctor, I assume I will faint and prep the doctor accordingly. I am almost never wrong. Gratefully, most people I encountered in my adolescence were understanding and accommodating (and also, secretly weirded out) by my obsessive and unnatural fear of blood, needles, veins, and anything medicine-related. I specifically remember being excused from the "Red Asphalt" films during Driver's Ed and the birthing video (courtesy of Title 22 Advanced First Aid training) during beach lifeguard training.
During college, Krissy and I had the brilliant idea to take Phy Sci because, obviously, we were dilligently interested in better understanding the various, scientific systems of the human body. And also, perhaps, because the course fit into the two hours of daily time we were alloted between swim practices to attend classes. And also, maybe because we heard it was an easy A. In any case, one of the course requirements was to have blood drawn in order to test cholesterol levels. When Krissy and I showed up to have our blood drawn, I was horrified to see a row of eight doctors, sitting next to patient's chairs, pricking students while simultaneously laughing and chatting with nurses. In an effort to maintain anonymity and privacy, students were asked to line up like cattle and see the "next available doctor." Prime fainting territory, and I certainly didn't disappoint. I cried. I screamed. I yelled at the doctor. Krissy was right next to me, and I distinctly remember the doctor saying, "There! You're all done! And you thought you were going to faint..." right before I passed out. I was required to stay there for 45 minutes, drinking apple juice with my legs propped up. Next to the row of anxiously awaiting students. You know, to make them feel more comfortable about their upcoming experience.
Two years ago I was hired at Carlsbad High School and, invariably, was required to get a TB test. Since my only previous experience with a TB test had ended with me on the floor, I asked Tim to come with me. I purposely made my appointment during Tim's lunch time, knowing there would be nothing more thrilling for Tim to do during his lunch than accompany me to the Vista Medical Clinic. I got there before him, and my doctor was an army veteren.
Me: My boyfriend is meeting me here. I usually faint when I get TB tests, so in case that happens he can drive me home.
Doctor (blinking): No, you're mistaken. You're probably thinking of another type of shot. You can hardly feel a TB shot.
Me: I know. It has nothing to do with the pain. It's all in my head. It's the fact that a needle...okay, I actually can't talk about it because I might faint, but I know what a TB test is.
Doctor: ...
Me: He should be here any minute.
Doctor: Seriously, it's nothing. Let's just do it. All of the stuff is right here.
Me: No.
Doctor: Wow. I've actually never seen someone pass out from a TB shot.
Me: Well, hopefully I won't. My boyfriend is a precaution.
Tim arrived. The doctor administered the shot. I squinted and winced and looked away and sweated through my t-shirt and sweatshirt. I felt dizzy and nauseous, but I hadn't passed out. Relieved, I got off of the table and walked with Tim to the elevator. While there, I started to sway a little, and suddenly I couldn't feel my legs. I remember grabbing on to Tim as we walked out into the large entrance way and, ultimately, the front area of the hospital.
Tim: You're okay! You probably still shouldn't drive though. I'll drive you home and we can pick up your car later.
Me: I don't feel good.
Tim: I promise, you're okay. Let's just get you to the car.
Me: I just need to sit down.
Tim: Okay, here, sit on the curb. Put your head between your knees...there...feel better?
Me: I just need to lay down.
Tim: Yeah, but, well, here's the thing...this is the entrance way to the hospital, so it's really busy and crowded. If you can just get to the car, you can lay down there...
Me (mumbling): Nope, I gotta lay down...
Passerby #1: ...Is she okay?
Passerby #2: Holy crap.
I fainted. My hand swung over my body so hard I cracked my watch. I came to with four doctors and Tim huddled over me; I was a football player in the movies looking up at his coaches and teammates after being knocked out. I couldn't figure out where I was or what was going on, and the next thing I knew a man was loading me into a wheelchair and hurriedly rolling me back into the hospital. I was crying. Again. 30 humiliating minutes later, I was on my home with Tim. I spent the entire rest of the day on the couch watching Lifetime movies (which, for clarification, has been known to happen on non-fainting days, too).
Not to disappoint, I was back in full form two weeks ago when Tim and I visited Debbie in the hospital. This time, just the mere SMELL of anti-bacterial soap and medicine was enough to make me feel light-headed. I was sitting in the hospital room for about ten minutes before I had to lay down on the floor and essentially "wait to faint." Although I have yet to time-travel, that's the best way to describe the few seconds before a fainting spell: I suddenly lose my hearing, everything gets hazy, and all perception (depth and otherwise) goes out the window. Coming back after passing out illicits a similar response, only with the added bonus of nausea, confusion, and the immediate desire to cry like a small child. I spent the two hours we visited Debbie laying on the linoleum floor of the hospital room. While I was there, three separate nurses came in to check on Debbie. Their reactions to me:
Nurse #1: Yup. Happens all the time. (Then, to Tim): Should I make up a bed for her? Start an IV?
Nurse #2 (half an hour later): Yeah....you know, if I were you, I wouldn't lay on that floor.
Nurse #3: Oh my god. Oh my god. OH MY GOD! She fainted?!?!?
Me: No, no, don't worry; it happens all the time. I know how to deal with it.
Nurse #3: WHAT?! Well THAT'S not normal! You should have that checked out.
Yesterday, on the phone with my dad, I recalled the events of my latest fainting escapade. Perhaps it's important to note this lovely little habit I have is a genetic trait passed down from him. God love my dad...he was awestruck rather than empathetic.
Dad: Wait. So it was just the smell?
Me: Yup. I know. I'm so pathetic.
Dad: But...the smell?
Me: Yeah, Dad. The smell.
Dad: Wow. You probably want to figure that out. I don't know how you fix that...
Me: I want to go to a hypnotist.
Dad: Good call.
My aunt swears this affliction stems from a incident that happened when I was four; she was baby-sitting and my brother accidentally got his arm stuck in the heating vent. When he pulled it out, he also removed large quantities of skin. I don't remember the event, but then again I faint almost as often as I pay my cell phone bill, so it's nice to have a reason (excuse?) to fall back on. According to F. Scott Fitzgerald, the past follows (and in many cases, haunts) you wherever you go. Maybe I'll spend the rest of my life passing out at inopportune moments and embarrassing myself and the people around me. Gatsby was forever haunted by his underprivileged past; I may very well be forever plagued by my aversion to all things blood and medicine. However, unlike Gatsby's ill-fated desires, my past won't interfere with my American dream...
"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."
