The other day, I had to go get a flu shot. Plagued by a lifelong fear of needles, I was not too keen on this idea, but my mom said I had to do it, and as with all children and their mothers, I am pretty scared of her. This was my sole reason for going. When I was in 4th grade, I was the understudy to play the coveted role of Egyptian Lady in my class play about Ancient Egypt. It was a kickass show, complete with several musical numbers and just a pinch of cultural appropriation. I was psyched to play Egyptian Lady, but Julie Frank got the role over me and I was distraught. But THEN Julie got the flu the day before the show, so I got to go on in her place. It rocked. Thus, the flu and I are old friends. Also, I am not worried about getting the flu because I don’t actually know what happens to you when you get it, and my general philosophy is that if I can’t understand it, I don’t fear it! This is why I have never read a single book in my entire life. Shrouded in a blissful cloak of ignorance, I am scared of almost nothing. Except for needles and my mom.
I took the morning off to prepare myself emotionally. While getting dressed, I broke a mirror, which did not bode well. I considered sticking one of the shards of glass in my arm as practice for the pain sure to accompany my vaccination, but I caught myself and realized just in time that this was a bad idea, which is a testament to my impressive intellect.
I made the fateful march to CVS, listening to the song from “Hamilton” where everybody finds out about Hamilton’s affair. This seemed like fitting musical accompaniment because I imagine the pain of getting a shot is relatively the physical equivalent of realizing your wife knows you cheated on her and you’re never gonna be president now.
Upon my arrival, I sat behind the blue curtain set up for vaccinations in the back of the store. The pharmacist, Patrice (name has been changed to protect privacy — I imagine someone who gives out shots on a daily basis has a lot of enemies and I’m not looking to make things complicated for Patrice), emerged from the back room. I tried to move my backpack to make room for her to sit in the chair next to me, but I ended up knocking over the blue curtain. Patrice leapt to catch it before it hit the ground. At this moment both Patrice and I knew things were not going to go so great for either of us.
I rolled up my sleeve in preparation. Patrice looked at me with fear, which did not instill a lot of confidence in me. I do have to give her some credit because she did not say, “Well, this is my first time doing this!” which is what Louis, the pharmacist from my last flu shot, announced right before he did the deed. “This is my first time doing this,” is not a phrase you want to hear when it comes to just about anything. Flying an airplane, performing a surgery, strapping in for tandem skydiving — I could go on. There are very few situations in which a lack of experience is a good thing. Perhaps if you’re on trial for a crime or you’re trying to run for president as a political outsider — coincidentally, two experiences with which Donald Trump is familiar!
Anyway, if this was Patrice’s first time, she did not say so, which I appreciated, even though the look in her eyes was giving off a “I nervous-vomited right before this and I’m totally going to vomit right after, too” vibe. She wiped my arm with an alcohol pad and injected the vaccine.
“Wow,” I said. “That really didn’t hurt!”
“Yeah,” she said. “It’s a flu shot.” This is when the tide started to change in my relationship with Patrice. Really was not loving her tone at this point.
Patrice turned away to get a band-aid. When she turned back she said, “Whoa!” which, again, is not a phrase medical professionals should just go blurting out. “You’re bleeding,” she said. I explained to her that I always bleed when I get vaccines. “Yeah, but, wow that’s a lot of blood.” If I were to take a survey on Patrice’s performance at this moment, I would give her bedside manner a two out of 10.
“It’s a flesh wound!” I said, assuming my best “Monty Python” impression. Patrice, apparently not a fan of 1970s British comedy and definitely not a fan of me, asked if I needed to lie down.
At the end of all this trauma, I texted my mother to let her know I’d gotten the shot. I informed her that next year, it will probably be better if I just go ahead and get the flu. She said no, so I reminded her that Hillary Clinton got pneumonia, which I think is probably worse than the flu, and she did fine, running for president and everything. My mom said she did not see how this was at all related.
“I’m with her!!!!!!” I texted my mother, 73 times in a row for emphasis.
“Your brother is my favorite child,” she texted back. My mom can be a real Patrice sometimes.
Nora Walls is a Humor writer.
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