Don't Holler 'Til You're Hit

Knoxville Pediatric Associates, circa 1970.

The offices of Knoxville Pediatric Associates are situated at the west end of the Fort Sanders neighborhood - home to college students and falafel restaurants and a diverse array of people. Each exam room backs up to a row of small rental homes most frequently occupied by graduate students, and on this particular occasion, our view is of a little white house with a rose trellis.

I am six years old, and I have strep throat.  It's official;  Dr. Willingham just left the room a few moments ago to go instruct Nurse Toni to draw up a penicillin injection.  He gives my father a baleful look on his way out the door.

I am famous at Knoxville Pediatric Associates, even at this tender age, for my surprisingly violent self-defense techniques.  Not only have I mastered high-velocity flailing, but I have also perfected a shriek that will peel wallpaper.

My father feels sorrier for the nurse who is going to be the stick-er, than he does for me as the stick-ee.  This makes me all kinds of mad.  And when I get mad, I cry.  (some things never change.)

We sit there after the doctor leaves, just my dad and me.  I start pleading with him to tell them to skip the shot, that I'm actually just fine, it's probably just a cold but thanks anyway. Please, Daddy?  Please?

PLEASEDADDYPLEASEDADDYPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE DON'T MAKE ME GET A SHOT!!!!!

Dad tries to soothe me, and gives me this priceless pearl of advice - "settle down, baby.  Don't holler til you're hit."

Dad has little tolerance for histrionics on a good day, but to be saddled with a sick and screaming 6 year old girl was certainly not on list of favorite things to do.  He stood up, sighed, and walked over to the window, his back to me.

"Wait...what's that?" says my dad.  He is all of a sudden very keenly interested in something going on outside the window.

I don't care what is going on outside the window, because someone is coming to impale my backside with a spear any moment now.  Cue up more caterwauling.

Dad giggles. "Oh....my....gosh....oh...um...you are not going to believe this..."

Now, I'm trying my level best not to care what is going on out there, but he isn't making it easy.  Whatever it is that is so fascinating has really got his attention.

"Well, would'ya look at that?!"  says he.

"WHAT, Daddy, what is it?  What are you looking at?"  My tears are drying and I am becoming more intrigued with the view myself.

"Oh gosh, baby, I'm sorry...never mind.  It's nothing important.  Probably nothing you need to be looking at anyway."

"What IS it, Daddy?"  Now I am enthralled with the notion of looking out the window.  It is too high up the wall for me to look out on my own - not without being on my very tippy-toes or being lifted up by my dad.

"Well, um, I don't know, baby, if you should be seeing this.  It's not really something little kids ought to see."

Little kids?  What little kids?  I am six-almost-seven, for pete's sake! 

"DADDY.  I want to look out the window!"

With a sly half-grin, he says, "well, OK, but don't say I didn't warn you," then he stoops over to lift me up so that I can peer out the window.

Where I see nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  The quaint little white house with the rose trellis, but whoop-dee-doo, what's so thrilling about that?  I say as much to my dad.

"What...you mean she's not there now?  Why, she was just there a minute ago!"

"Who, Daddy?  Who was there?"

"Well, the naked lady, of course.  There was a naked lady right there through that big window, taking a shower."

WHAT??  A NAKED LADY??  WHERE ?!?!?  At age 6, gender is less relevant than the overall notion of seeing somebody with no clothes on, so of course, I am now focused on keeping an eye out for the naked lady.  Where'd she go?  Was she young or old?  Fat or skinny?  Pretty or ugly?

The door creaks open softly, barely noticed, and in creeps Nurse Toni with her 22-gauge needle.  I know she is there, and I know why, but dammit woman, we've got to find the naked lady!  The shot will have to wait!

As I crane my neck to keep looking for the naked lady, Nurse Toni gently eases down the left side of my shorts and does the deed.  And heck yes, it hurts, it hurts something awful!

"OW! OWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOOWAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!!!!"  Now the tears are back. "You sneaked up on me, that's CHEATING, OW OW OW  wwwwaaaah!!"

Dad pats me on the head and says, "OK, baby girl, holler away."  So I sniffle and accept my grape Dum-Dum sucker and off we go.

Don't holler 'til you're hit.  What wonderful advice.

How often it is that I still flail and shriek in fear of future pain.  Maybe not physically, but still in my heart I am flailing and dithering and all kinds of afraid of what lies ahead - especially if I suspect it's going to hurt.

We've all been hurt;  most of us can think of at least one or two extremely painful events in our own lives.  It is natural to want to avoid that feeling.  Yet it is pointless - even harmful - to anticipate and worry and live in fear of what may (or may not!) lie ahead.

Plus, I may get to see some pretty interesting stuff if I am looking at today instead of worrying about tomorrow.  It's true - I'm probably going to get hit again sometime down the road, and some of those events are just the natural course of life.

I think I will skip the hollering, at least today.  Don't want to miss anything.