Thin white paper crackled beneath my thighs and bottom as young, restless legs bounced off the side of the oak examination table. I was making a lot of noise, but was excessively bored. After she decided she’d had enough, my mother grabbed one of my knees and feigned some ridiculous threat. I knew she wouldn’t follow through.
She was leafing through a magazine and talking to my sister. I was there to get some kind of shot that would keep me from getting sick. I didn’t believe it would work, but I was a skeptic, even at four. After an eternity of kicking and getting yelled at, an old man finally walked through the door. He had something in his hand and a couple of cotton balls. He grabbed my right arm, rubbed it with the acrid-smelling material and explained that he was cleaning my arm. Next, he pulled the cap off the other thing he had carried in, drew it close to my arm and- OH MY GOSH, WHAT THE CRAP ARE YOU DOING?!
Tears.
Months later, I had to return for a vaccination. It was supposed to be similar to what happened last time. I was on edge, which is saying a lot for a human who can express his his age to friends and relatives using only one hand. This time, I noticed a cup full of popsicle sticks. I asked my mother if I could have some. Negative. Whatever, I decided I’d just sit there and try not to go crazy. I noticed homeless men hanging out on a bench outside the window. They held my attention until the doctor arrived. He had more cotton and another terrifying item of pain. I tensed up but thought I’d give him another chance.
More tears. I think my mother was embarrassed.
Months later, I was five. They told me I had to go again. I fought it all week. I begged not to go. I grabbed the door frame on the way out of the house. I refused to get in the car and once we had arrived at the office, I protested from the back seat. I vacated the vehicle, but only after my mother exerted some force. I went limp in the parking lot and insisted that if I was going to get another bloody shot, my mother was going to have to drag me up the stairs to the awful office. She explained that I was about to get spanked. I had to think for a minute about which was worse, getting swatted, or stabbed with another vaccine. I took the hit and then marched up the stairs, a hostage to my own parent.
White paper crackled under my thighs and bottom. I searched the room for something to arm myself. I came back to the popsicle sticks. What if I stabbed him with one? Maybe I could double-fist and really get him good. Then he’d never give me another shot, ever again. I reached for the metal cup that held the only visible weapons in the room, but my mother swooped in and pulled it away. What was her problem? She was as bad as the doctor, because she apparently wanted me to suffer.
The old man came in with more cotton balls but this time, he had two needles. Inside, I started to fall to pieces. He asked for my arm, I declined to share it with him. He laughed and reached for it. My mother glared at me from over his shoulder. I knew that she’d get my father involved if I made too much of a fuss. I searched the room for something I could use to knock him unconscious. I caught sight of his stethoscope and considered choking him…
Repeated exposure to extremely negative behavior led to distrust. A five-year-old doesn’t care if the doctor is actually up to any good. My little mind couldn’t understand what was going on. I hated that man for years because all he seemed to do was bring pain. I eventually learned to trust him, but that’s not the point. Trust is a difficult thing to obtain and it may be more challenging to maintain. Of course, we have to place our confidence in somebody, otherwise we’d all be conspiracy theorists, vigilantly looking for rogue government agencies, UFOs and the chupacabra. Or we just wouldn’t have any friends.
Every now and again, somebody keeps doing the same stupid thing, and that five-year-old inside of me starts looking for weapons…
Trust isn’t easy. We have to fight to develop it and we must work to help others sustain the trust they have placed in us.
Very nicely done…. I vaguely remember having a similar experience with my doctor as a child…
Thanks Dixie, I feel like you told me that story a long time ago. Needles were the worst when I was a kiddo… now they don’t seem to bother me!
I love how you used this experience to make the point about trust. I had a similar experience with a dentist when I was very young. To this day, while I still go because I have to, I am a raging anti-dentite.
Kat, I hate going to the dentist. Mine has gargantuan man-hands that he likes to stuff in the back of my throat. I have a headache the rest of the day after I leave that awful place. I don’t trust him either. Also? I’m convinced that his snarky assistants stab me in the tongue and gums intentionally. UGH!
Oh great. I have a bit of a tin hat myself. And I just realized I am a conspiracy theorist who does stay up to date on my vigilant duties of exposing those rogue agencies and keeping the resistance strong! Plus I’ve been watching video footage of UFO’s over the dome of the rock and I don’t doubt that the chupacabra could indeed exist. Well maybe not the chupacabra but nessie. She is definately real! But the real kicker is I just realized why I don’t have friends. : ( THis has been an eye opening read. A depressing one, but eye opening. Thanks again Jake. Always love your writing.
Danielle, I”m imagining a picture of all of us wearing tin-foil hats. I should have used that instead of the popsicle stick. DANG IT! And you’re a bit of a conspiracy theorist, but I love that about you. And Lord knows how much of it’s true… because humans are freaks that do things they shouldn’t. It’s AWFUL.
I have to say I’m a little surprised you didn’t assault the doctor, especially after he laughed. Trust is a treasure. When someone puts there trust in us it is as big a compliment as we can receive. The people that I’ve known that I knew couldn’t be trusted are usually the most miserable people I know.
When there is trust, there is rest.
I understand how it feels to want to grab for the weapons and use them on the people that really do need them used upon.
You don’t want to do that… Trust me…
Trust is a treasure. We have to guard it carefully. The good news is that it can be earned back, it just takes time and effort. Some people aren’t interested in either of those though, so I guess they getto stay at an arm’s length away, so I can’t reach them 😉
They aren’t out of your reach, because they aren’t out of the reach of our Father. Your arms will reach an untold number… As God of Heaven is my witness…This is Truth.
That may have been a little dramatic… And I don’t want you calling me a drama queen, maybe you should delete that one?
I just sense you’re going to be called to do much.
Floyd, I appreciate the support, 100%. You have no idea what something like that means to me and it’s probably not even appropriate to explain in the responses of a blog post. Regardless, thank you.
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Great post on trust, Jake. I know in the last few years, I went through some similar feelings with God – wondering why he was allowing so much pain and struggle instead of joy and answered prayers. Unfortunately, I couldn’t grab a lollipop to stab him or a stethoscope to choke him, though sometimes I wanted to. But it was in those moments of pain that I truly began to trust him. Great post!
Trust is a fascinating thing. Easily abused and difficult to maintain. And of course, the human who’s doing the trusting has to put themselves out there and do it over and over. Everything about it is terrifying.