Blog Post #10: HAPPY HALLOWEEN! (Gloria Pulley)

(So this is going to be a very long post, sorry.)

Have you ever had a crazy person try to bite you?  This sounds like a strange question to most.  But you are also not my doctor or unfortunate nurse.  And you have never tried to stick a needle in me.  That’s right I’m one of those people, universally hated by medical staff.  And I will fight you. 

I’m not really sure why I hate needles…medical equipment…hospitals…yeah don’t let me near any of those.  Baby Gloria has memories of going to the hospital in Versailles to see Dr. Laurie. I got plenty of shots and of course I would cry when I got them.  But it was all ok because I got stickers.  Right? Apparently it wasn’t actually ok.

Flash forward about 8 years when I finally lost my last tooth in seventh grade.  For some reason it was lodged in my gum and the dentist said he could take it out for me at a routine checkup.  I agreed because it was being a pain in my bum, and he left the room for a minute promising he would be right back. Two minutes he returned, syringe in hand, partially filled and ready to stab me in the face.  You could say I went a little crazy…

I bolted.  Almost knocking over the tray of dentist tools, scurried to the corner, acting like any other cornered animal, hissing, fangs bared, claws ready to take out an eye if needed.  Hands up, the dentist approached slowly whispering soothing nothings to calm me, and that’s what they were- nothing. I did not trust him.  I wanted to rip his face off and get out of there as quickly as possible.  He was able to eventually coax me out of the corner with the promise of a potent mixture of laughing gas and oragel, and the tooth was removed.  But the animal inside continued to dwell, building in ferocity.

Since then, I have a few other “minor” incidents.  I tried kicking…all four nurses… holding me down…under an exam table… which I had tried to flip and use as a barricade (this was eighth grade, when I went to get my booster shots).  On several occasions freshman year I had to excuse myself so I didn’t pass out from looking at 1) blood 2) civil war era surgical equipment 3) a trash can full of dissected worms (which I had to stick my hand into to fish out the dissection mat I had dropped 4) people taking their pulse in a biology lab… I somehow managed to fling both of my shoes at a nurse while higher than a kite from the laughing gas they gave me before they could knock me out for my wisdom teeth surgery. 

Then there was earlier today when I went to get an MRI of my leg.  I knew that they might have to use contrast dye on me (special thanks to Rachel Roberts, who had me freaked out because she said it burns like hell).  So when the MRI tech came in during the MRI and started tinkering with something on the other side of the machine, I suspected the worst.  I quickly took note of the exits, one about six feet away and one through the observing room.  I figured I wouldn’t do too much more damage to my fractured tibia by making a break for it.  The lobby was just down the hall and around the corner, then out the door to the parking lot.  Even when injured, I can run a lot faster than they can.  Turns out I was all good though and I left about twenty minutes later, tibia still mostly intact and void of needle marks.

            

            Ok so this fear is a little bit more personal

I’m afraid of friendship.        

            My parents got a particularly nasty, five year long divorce when I was seven.  Since then, I’ve moved several times and had to make all new friends several times (this is actually the longest I’ve ever stayed somewhere).  Because of this and several unpleasant experiences, I came up with my own philosophy on friendship: everyone leaves.  This sounds really depressing, but it seems like all friendships have ended this way, whether you leave them, or they leave you. 

Until now, I thought moving constantly was hard on friendships.  But knowing someone for five years, three years, two years… that’s worst. You run countless miles with them by your side.  You steal each other’s clothes.  You plan the rest of your life with them, clinging to a promise that they’ll always be right there with you.  They’re the person you call when you’re high off your ass on laughing gas or flat on your ass crying.  They’ve seen you at your worst, sweaty, bawling, bloodied, wounded, despondent.  They always put you back together. 

But then something snaps, likes a cable, and you plunge into the void, while they’re still standing atop the cliff.  Just another stranger.