3 things. But this is the major one.
It's a long story, but I've a long history with Needles.
Needles wasn't always a fear of mine. But when I was about ten I was having a routine blood test, and my vein Popped. Pop! Not like a balloon, mind.
"oh, it's disappeared" Said the nurse. She then, instead of taking the needle out and trying again, jiggles the needle about INSIDE MY ARM, whilst in vain trying to get my vein. (Hey, see what I did there?) She didn't get it, and she scared the living daylights out of me, as well as causing extreme pain.
Ever since it's gotten worse. My veins have always been terrible anyway, but by the time I was 18, I needed to have my veins accessed most weeks. I was waiting for a liver transplant, and was on intravenous antibiotics a lot. As well as lots of blood tests. I would have to be held down, whilst I screamed, fought and kicked, whilst the veins were got at. I'm not and never was a strong person, yet it would take two people to hold me when needles were involved. My arms where full of bruises, when a vein was found it usually yielded no blood, and the docs were getting kind of desperate. So was I. They were eying up my ankles at this stage, looking for suitable veins, and I really couldn't take anymore.
I went to a hypnotist. It made a big difference. I still cried, moaned and felt frightened, but I could sit still, no restraint needed. A little while before the transplant, with my veins shot to shit, I get a little device planted in my chest which means the needle gets plugged straight into that. Dead handy. I tell people I have silicon in my breast, but it's not what they're hoping for.
So I go along to the hospital, the day I was called for my liver, ready for it. Knowing too, that I had this little port in my chest so no needles would come near me, made me feel more relaxed. But it was not to be. I had already been turned away from a liver for not being well enough, I was nervous and frightened. And along comes an anesthetist with a HUGE fuck off needle for me. I ask him politely where the hell does he think he's sticking that thing, and he gestures to my bony frail hand. The needle was thicker than my fingers! Well, not really, but had he not looked at how skinny I was?? Less than 6 stone at the time. That knitting needle would slice through me. He did go for a smaller needle, but I had to have it in my hand. No one knew how to use my port so they refused to touch it. It's ok, I figure, I'll be knocked out, and they'll put a few lines in my hands, I can deal. Except it wasn't that simple. I woke up, and after a day or two noticed something on my neck. I had a ginormous bunch of lines coming out of my neck. Sweet-holy-christ-there's-five-different-lines-going-into-one-place-holy-shit-what-get-them-out-of-there. AND they were stitched in! So, at the end of my stay, the line had to be cut out. By a scalpel wielding nurse! Right. By. My. Eyes. I still have the marks on my neck. Good god! It's inhumane!
Now though, I'm 22, and nearly 4 years (This year in Oct) post transplant. I've had about 2 people go for my veins. And both, despite my warnings that my veins were shite, managed to get nothing out of me. The port in my chest works perfectly, allowing me to receive through it, and give blood. (Which some won't do) Apart from a few weeks where it gave up giving blood, which to be fair was after 2 months in hospital, using it constantly, it's worked perfectly. I luvs it!
Now though, I'm faced with insulin injections. INTO MY STOMACH. Holy fuck....
(Beauty School Drop-out, Fri 11 Apr 2008, 3:27, 1 reply)

unholy god!!!
I was already terrified of needles! You are a very, very brave soul!
(twuntysomething, Fri 11 Apr 2008, 4:59, closed)