Needles, Phobias, and Stories

Long ago and far away I had a needle phobia, a serious needle phobia. It was real, complete with sweating, dreading, and pain far beyond what was really there in those nerve endings.  During my masters internships, I had the opportunity to sort through it. Apparently, there were some unconscious associations that were truly hidden deeply in my unconscious mind, and when those connections were made (that story is for another day), the phobia disappeared.

Now, after five months of two surgeries, multiple blood tests, a bone marrow aspiration, a partial nephrectomy, a gall bladder removal, and a diagnosis of small cell lymphacytic lymphoma, I feel all needled out, but tomorrow there will be at least one more, and there will be more down the road. 

Several people have made those penetrations and procedures bearable including, number one, hands down, is Charla.  She has been my number one supporter, cheerleader, and advocate. Of late we have discussed vicarious PTSD and the suffering of the caregiver. A distant second would be my medical team, those phlebotomists, technicians, nurses, nurse practitioners, and physicians, and the front line staff. 

Tomorrow I will show up for labs.  In that lab will be a large group of phlebotomists and some will recognize me and I will recognize them. I have my story of journeying to their place of work. They have their stories of journeying to their place of work from other countries. 

A goofy thing I do is to say to each person before she or he sticks the needle in my arm is the line, "I like to live in the pain-free zone. Can you help me live in that place?"  They usually say something after a chuckle like, "I don't know. You tell me." It lightens the moment and allows me to engage them and their stories. I will inevitably affirm their use of that needle. 

Tomorrow I hope to see Achal.  She is a very competent phlebotomist and is kind and gracious.  She immigrated to this country from South Sudan. She had wanted to go to college, if I remember her story correctly, and play volleyball. However, she chose to honor the request of her family, or the demands of her family, and thus she became a worker in the medical world.  She has lived in America several years.  When I asked her, "Has American been good to you," she replies with "there is no perfect place" and something about taking the good with the bad. 

I think America is not terribly welcoming these days to immigrants, especially those who are brown skinned. I do not know how much more difficult that it would be for people like her if they were trying to coming to American under the current administration. Check out a few things about the white nationalism that is lurking in the White House and is shaping policy.  It's all over the news these days.  

So, I'll be happy to see Achal or Amir or the guy from the Philippines whose name I cannot remember, the guy who put my blood in something like 17 vials a while back.

They have their stories of struggle and resilience.  Charla and I have our stories of struggle and resilience these last five months.  Our stories overlap and connect. That's what I like about hanging around with humans. We get to swap stories. 

Stories are our habituations.  We live in and through them. They give us meaning and purpose. 

As these good people do their jobs well, they are creating shalom, and some measure of justice, in making the world a better place, one procedure at a time.