The medicine man
If I were to create my very own Room
101, a la George
Orwell’s 1984,
there’s a very strong chance it
would contain needles. Syringes,
to be precise.
Watching an injection on TV can make me faint. Certain movies are off-limits: Trainspotting is the worst. The scene which emulates an overdose, from the initial torniquet around the bicep to the tripped-out ride to hospital, makes me feel like I’m in need of medical attention. If I don’t look away, I will be.
So when the little man requires his vaccinations, Carolina takes him to the doc’s. There’s a very real chance that I would be unable to drive afterwards if it were down to me. This phobia is beyond my control, before you ask me to grow up and be a man about it.
Everybody has something they hate, be it spiders, heights or dark, enclosed spaces. I would rather not teach Jasper to be afraid of jabs. If he’s inherited the fear from me (and who could blame him?), so be it, but most fears are learned from observing our parents.
The pinprick and sting pains Jasper, but their effects cause more consternation. Long after the shock (and with luck, the memory) of the injection, Jasper shows symptoms of feeling unwell: a mild fever, grumbling, squirming, unsettled sleep.
Along with my fear of needles, I have a mistrust of everyday drugs. Life-saving medicine is one thing, but popping pills for mild ailments has always bothered me. If it’s serious, seek medical help. If not, get on with it.
Jasper cannot get on with it though. Nor can we stand by and watch him suffer. The doctor recommended baby Nurofen or similar until the symptoms subsided. JD slurped down the cherry-flavoured liquid with the interest he always shows for new sensations.
And it was like a switch had been thrown. Within half an hour, he was his calm, happy self again. All hail the medicine man! Sleep well.
