It was getting to be
wisdom teeth pulling season for me and my brother. While in Peru, my mom did a
little research and found it was much more affordable to get them yanked in the
Spanish country as opposed to the US, which was no surprise and definitely good
news to their wallets. I didn’t really care where I got them sucked out of my
face, so I went along with it. We found some lovely ladies to do the work for
us very quickly. Soon, the work had begun.
Aaron was the first to go
in and get started. The way they do it in Peru is by side – i.e. left side top
and bottom first, then right side top and bottom. So you had at least one side
of your mouth to chew, among other things.
What really made things
interesting was the fact that they didn’t put us under with sedation; they used
local anesthetic, which meant sticking a needle of numbing solution in the gum
just above or below the area they were working on. This also meant being awake
for the entire operation.
So they whipped out their
tools (some of them oddly reminded me of things I would find in my dad’s
toolbox) and got to work. A lot of grinding, scraping, and yanking ensued until
I was two teeth less. The operation itself didn’t bother me, as everything went
perfectly fine. It was the medicine we were “prescribed” that got me.
In the states, generally
you get two bottles of pills: one being of a hard painkiller like Vicodin, and
the other being an anti-inflammatory drug. Simple, right? Don’t suck anything
through a straw, stick to eating mashed potatoes, pudding, and jello for a few
days, don’t do anything extremely hot and you’ll be good.
In Peru it was much
different. We were to get two butt shots, one in the morning and the other in
the evening, for 3-4 days. That’s right: needles in butts. It had an anti-pain,
anti-inflammatory, and another helpful anti-something, but they had lost me at
butt shots.
What I expected of these
shots did not match up with what they really were, and I mean this in a
terrible way. Every morning and night for a couple days I zipped into Chilca
with my mom to the local pharmacy where they took me behind the counter and
administered the shots as ordered. The needle was longer than your average shot
needle, which gave me a bad feeling from the start. The woman giving me the
shot would pull down my jeans at the back just a few centimeters, cleanse the
area, and jab the thing in like it wasn’t a giant needle. It didn’t just sting
– it pricked and burned and felt like barbed wire was being fed through my
skin. The other thing that bothered me was that it was a fairly slow shot, the
insertion and withdrawal of this needle, so it made everything agonizing.
The first few of these
shots left me with a sore lower back, but it no doubt helped the healing
process of the new holes in my face so I was trying not to complain. However,
one morning when I was going to the pharmacy to get my shot, it wasn’t right.
The lady brought me behind the counter with her usual mildly sour expression
and cleansed the marked area to be stuck.
And when she pushed the
needle in this time, everything about it was wrong. It didn't just sink in
slowly and painfully zap the nerves like normal; it hurt. Every square inch of my skin cried out in discomfort and utter
pain, sending an unwelcome, eerie shudder ringing through my body.
She removed the lengthy
needle and told me in flat Spanish I could leave. With the first step I took,
my head spun and practically lifted from my neck. A lump sat in my stomach
before starting to churn.
I told myself I'd be
okay, that it's just a temporary side effect because of the shot. My mom pulled
out some soles and paid the lady behind the counter, glancing over at me with a
curiously concerned look.
"You okay?" she
asked, collecting her things and guiding me out of the pharmacy. I nodded and
took some silent deep breaths. You'll be
okay. Just a side effect.
A weird side effect
that's never happened before in the other 6 butt shots I've gotten.
While waiting for a combi, my stomach violently knotted and spun like a washing
machine. I couldn't stand up straight. My head got lighter and lighter. White
stars floated around in my vision.
"You sure you're
okay?" mom asked again, more urgently as she led me to the back of the
combi to sit.
"No," I
repelled flatly, grinding my teeth and attempting to surmount the pain,
attempting to shove it away. It didn't work.
"We'll be back to
Hannah's home soon, just hold on. You look white as a sheet of paper," she
commented with surprised anxiousness. She placed a hand on my back, which was
hunched over with my head between my knees and fists clenched. Out of the
corner of my eye, I saw her bow her head and close her eyes, as if in prayer. I
assumed that's what she was doing.
Just a few more minutes, I told myself while the pain increased,
seeming to read my thoughts. But then
what happens when I get home? The pain won’t go away just by walking through
the front door...
Finally the combi stopped
at the end of la segunda and my mom
helped me out of the van. We walked as hurriedly as we could down the road. My
stomach didn't let up and continued knotting and stabbing with pain. White
desired to overcome my vision. Mom tried to help me walk as best she could, but
there wasn't anything else she could do; her frustration with this was obvious.
The front door came in to
view and I muscled past the discomfort, willing myself to go faster. Once
through, I raced to the bathroom like a wounded animal. Thankfully using the facilites
made the pain subside just a little. As soon as I walked back out, I asked
(demanded, really) for some Motrin or the closest pain reliever. Downing it
without thought, I retired to my room, put a movie on on my laptop and tried to
stop thinking about the knives stabbing my stomach and rear end.
The pain didn't end
within the next day or so, though, emotionally or physically. The next evening
came and we jumped in the combi to go to Lima and get the stitches out of
Aaron's last side. In my head, it didn't make any sense for me to have to get
another butt shot, so I was fairly content. No more pain. At least not for a
little while, anyway.
I was so achingly wrong.
Sitting out in the modest
waiting room with my parents, reading over some of my stories via my phone and
otherwise biding my time while Aaron got the stitches removed, I was pretty
calm. No worries. But when one of the ladies working on Aaron came out to
report to my mom what the deal was with my brother, she glanced over at me and
said something in Spanish about needing another shot.
My brother was fine after
the removal of the stitches, but I wasn’t.
Fear launched through my
entire body without warrant and I started to shake. Just the mention of another
butt shot made me want to throw up and sob my heart out simultaneously. Anything,
anything was better than that shot.
A fish tank adorned the
far wall diagonally from me and I trained my eyes on all the fishies swimming
around happily in it, focusing on something other than my overwhelming fear
while at the same time attempting so hard not to let it show.
Dad wasn’t fooled one
bit.
He asked me what was
wrong, if I was okay. In the second I took my eyes off the fish tank and
remembered why I was acting strangely, I started to cry. It poured out of me
like a waterfall, without my consent or judgment. Dad got into the chair next
to me and wrapped an arm around my shoulders as I plastered my hands to my face
in shame, frustration, and mental pain. The hiccups shuddered through me and I
soaked the sleeves of my shirt through within minutes.
So stupid.
My fear had such a
fantastic hold on me – I couldn’t shake the thoughts, even, and that was all it
took to trigger my panic attack.
No. Not another butt shot. I’d rather die.
And it was the honest
truth.
When the lady came out
into the waiting room with the needle and cleaning wipe, she turned
sympathetic, consoling old eyes on me. There was no accusation or vexation in
her chocolate irises. It made me sob harder, partially in thanks and partially
in annoyance with the fragility of my ability to fight fear.
Dad tried to make me feel
better and gave me a mini pep-talk about how it would be just a couple seconds
and this last shot, this gloriously final shot would be over for good. Done. No
más.
Too bad the mental repercussions would echo
through me for months.
Even still, being the good little girl I am, I
nodded, sniffled and followed the woman into the bathroom to have a bit of
privacy. She told me a few comforting, empowering words in Spanish, essentially
reciting what my father had told me, only in a different language. I nodded
again, just to relay that I had understood her – not necessarily that I
believed her.
Drawing down the waistband of my jeans just above
the leftmost belt loop on the back, she stabbed the needle in as gently as she
could manage; I tensed up so hard I could have crushed bricks into dust with my
little fingers. More tears squeezed out from under my clamped eyelids. I didn’t
think I had any juice left to do such a thing, but that was just another thing
I hadn’t expected.
The lady, patient and loving as ever, finished up
her duties and smiled at me with finality. Even though I was feeling far from
it, I gave her a weak, wobbly smile in return. Grateful.
This all took place shortly before my family and I
moved back to the states from our couple year stay in Peru – somewhere in March
or April of 2011 my new, gripping fear was born. I can honestly say it was one
of the worst days of my life. To be brought down to such a low mental place
where merely thinking about it
triggered a crippling panic attack. I’d never experienced anything quite like
it and I do not wish to in the future ever again.
Gradually the effects of the worst day wore off,
but that was only because I didn’t need shots of any kind for a while – lucky
me. Then came physical time and getting ready for college, which required some
updated immunizations. Joy.
I was nervous. Okay, I was terrified the day I had
to get a shot again. I kept telling myself it wasn’t in the butt; it was going
to be in the shoulder. These ones never hurt near as much as those butt ones
did and I’ve gotten ones like these when I was a lot younger, so I couldn’t wus
out. However, my mind was not having any of that. I still tensed up even while
the nurse told me to relax. Granted I didn’t go into a full fit of hysterics,
but it was a difficult leap over my fear. Thankfully, I made it across.
To this day, the spots above my rear will randomly
sting like a needle jabbing me, just to remind me of the traumatizing
experience – and believe me, there’s no way I can forget it.
---------
Ahhh, the true stories of my adventures in Peru. This one is the least loveliest of them all and unfortunately I say that with confidence and pure honesty. That's life, I suppose. It is what it is. I'm just glad the fear has been vanquished in my head.
Hopefully I'll be posting more, but then again who knows. I feel I've said that before and nothing new changes or happens. Oh well. At least I haven't abandoned the blog completely.
Ta!
~V
