Time to say "ouch"

As a kid, the betrayal of doctors angered me. It still does. I appreciated their honesty in affirming my fears that the shot would hurt. After all, it is a needle getting jabbed into your skin. But when they'd say "You won't even have time to say ouch!" forget it. Of course there's time to say ouch. They seemed to reserve that for only the biggest, most painful shots out there.

I didn't realize how important the tip of my thumb was until I burnt it. Every minute I was running from my enlarger to plunge by hand in a drinking fountain or sink. For now it has hardened into a lump, awaiting its opportunity to burst at an inopportune moment.

I don't think doctors lie as much as you get older. When my second ovarian cyst ruptured February of last year, I got a very big needle full of antibiotics. I knew exactly where it was going to go. More than a little high from painkillers and slightly delusional from the pain I asked "Is this going to hurt?"
Knowing grin. "Turn over."
Needle, meet buttcheek. Yet, for some reason, it didn't hurt. It tingled and my whole leg went numb. The next day was a different story. My French class (at my suggestion) had a hot date at the de Young to look at the Yves Saint Laurent collection. The whole drive from Marin I was balanced on my right side, wincing whenever we turned. I was still a little loopy from all the painkillers I'd been stuffed with and a little woozy from the big dose of antibiotics. I took all the clothing in with wonderment as I shuffled more than a little lopsided in my worn Louboutin flats. This experience later manifested itself in one of my last art projects of senior year. In it, condoms and syringes rain down from above. Balloons fly up into the sky. Rings and hearts cascade down as tacos and ice cream cones take flight across the sky. Silhouettes of the shoes I wore flap into the breeze.

I've come a long way in dealing with needles. Perhaps it's the piercings or the tattoo. But now there's a new contender.

The mole. This mole and I have been locked in a stalemate all my life. When I was 8 (and compulsively picking at my skin) I picked it until it bled. A year or two ago it started itching and bleeding. One night I was in the shower and it simply fell right off. I watched the little spot circle the drain in horror. I picked it up and slapped it back on my arm. It promptly slid off and slipped down the drain. My mole! My precious mole! Why did you leave me?!
Oh wait, you regrew. And mutated. Again. Just last week you pulled the same stunt. Not cool. You and me are going to the doctor.

And part of me still hopes there's no time to say ouch.