I have a fear of needles. It's a rational fear: when I was 6, after I got my ear's pierced, my ear grew over the back of one of the earrings. We went to a doctor, and without asking my mother, he assumed that saving the earring mattered. So, he hauled out a freezing needle (yay! Local! My favourite) and -- after saying "This won't hurt," -- stabbed me in the ear 5 times with local anaesthetic.
I didn't always have a fear of needles. My Mom tells me that when I was a baby I was shockingly good with them. I was pretty much fearless up until about the age of 8.
For some people, local anaesthetic is no big deal. For me, it's like LIQUID FIRE BURNING UNDER MY SKIN THAT SPREADS, ITCHES AND BURNS WORSE THAN FROSTBITE. So you can understand why, when the doctor -- without (truthful) warning -- injected a very sensitive and nerve-filled area (my earlobe) with local, I was more than a little perturbed.
After all this, my Mom took him aside and asked, "Why aren't you just cutting it out?" He spluttered a bit and then did that. Then I let the liar sew up my ear. That was the last time he got within reaching distance of me. When we came back to have the stitches out, he had to look at them from across the room, and my Mom cut them out. I can deal with those who inflict pain upon me for a good cause: those who lie? NOPE!
So all of this background is relevant because the week before last, I went to my current doctor for my annual. I requested a blood sugar test because -- although I am very healthy -- I have hypoglycaemia issues. And Type I runs rampantly through my family. So, it seemed like a good idea. I knew what I was asking for, but I also knew I wouldn't like it. Fast forward to last night, and this morning's planned blood test. I was waiting for Gadot (ok, for my new sectional to be delivered... it felt like forever... but Gadot arrives in this version!), putting together other furniture, and moving things out of the living room.
So I forgot to eat dinner. At 8:20 -- after the delivery guys left -- I realized that I hadn't eaten my lovingly planned out grilled cheese sandwich (balderson cheddar and jalapeno gouda?!). AND IT WAS TOO LATE! I had to be at the appointment for 7:30! Oh No! :(
So I sucked it up and went to the Pub. Not because I'm a masochist, but because I wanted to see the people there, and at least there I'd be doing something. I spent all night having fun, turning down shots (alcohol = sugar), and drooling over the poutines running by under my nose.
To top it all off, every time I smell food, I remember why I can't eat, and go back to dreading the appointment in the morning. And by dreading, I mean hyperventilating a little to myself.
This morning I get up (with much difficulty), head out, and... discover that the paperwork for my bloodletting is missing. So is my prescription for the preventative medicine (not pain meds) the doctor gave me to try to treat my headaches. Awesome. So I frantically search for it. Nope. The folded paper I thought they were were info on buying sewing machines. Double-awesome. Paperwork must be at work. Upside: the lab is right by work. Downside: go to work, go to lab, go back to work, STILL HAVEN'T EATEN: I AM GETTING SO HUNGRY!
So I drive (rather than walk) to work. Guess what's not there? That's right: the paperwork. By this point I am holding back tears by sheer force of will. I hadn't eaten in 14 hours, and the last thing I had eaten was a chocolate bar and a couple of handfuls of popcorn. I pick myself up, drive to Tim Horton's, and get myself a freaking bagel.
In an hour, I have an interview which will determine which level I shall be placed in in my French classes.
Dear day, please start looking up. I'd really rather not be in a pissy mood when I collect The Boy from the train tonight.