A woman in scrubs walked into our rooms to prep my IV. I can assume she was a nurse. As a kid, I had a… mild phobia of needles. The kind that leaves you screaming and crying on your mom’s shoulder until you get home from the pediatrician’s. Yeah, that kind of mild. Before beginning my IV, the nurse pulls out a tiny needle. She bends her knees and shows it to me. “You see? How little? It looks like a butterfly.”
Did it look like a butterfly? I couldn’t tell you because at that moment, I was thrust into panic. I was already a very anxious and sensitive little girl. But now, my 50 pound body began to shake. My breathing changed and I felt the kind of fear only a kid could know. I felt a severe pain in my tummy. My sister took me to the bathroom. I started to dry heave. My sister held a hospital grade tissue box in front of me as I spit up whatever I could. I, of course, hadn’t had anything to eat (as per pre-surgical rules) so nothing more than stomach acid would’ve come up regardless.
I didn’t understand what was happening to me. As a six or seven year old, I didn’t know to attribute this sudden onset of symptoms to anxiety and panic. I was still sitting on the toilet when I noticed the door was wide open (thanks for nothing, HIPAA). I was a very shy girl, so it didn’t help the anxiety to know that anyone passing by could see me having a full blown anxiety attack… while on the toilet. Of course, I was covered as adequately as I could have been, but still.
A little girl with her mom passed by. The mom was young, probably in her early 30s. She was Muslim, Yemeni and wore hijaab. Her daughter was likely also there for surgery. She gave me a look of care and concern as she walked away. I felt that maybe my panic would cause her daughter (who was younger than me) to panic. It was after that encounter that I was able to calm down. I don’t remember what happens after that. I assume I return to the pre-operative room with my sister, the IV is inserted and so on.
As fate would have it, I’d run into that young mother and her daughter on the swings in the playground behind the school near my house some several months later. She’d introduce herself to me and ask me if I was the girl from the hospital. I’d look at her and her daughter and think about how pretty I thought her little daughter was.
As fate would also have it, I’d have more surgeries but never another “it looks like a butterfly” incident. I’d continue to experiences bits and pieces of that anxiety well into my college years. I’d have my second panic attack in college. This time, I’d recognize what it is. I’d have my third on a beautiful summer day. This time, I’d recognize what it is, recognize what built up to it, and know how to walk myself through it.
Trauma, whether at the hands of a well-meaning nurse or anyone else, is real. I was only six or seven and yet I remember those moments vividly. Your brain will burn those moments into your mind and you won’t be able to forget them. I remember looking at the nurse with the butterfly needle. I remember the tissue box I spit into. I remember my sister on her knee next to me in the bathroom. I remember seeing through the open bathroom door. I remember it all. And nearly two decades later, I still occasionally recall the experience altogether.
Recognize your trauma. Journal about it. Talk to someone you trust about it. And if it is impeding on your ability to get through a day, reach out to a professional about it.
Lastly, if you’re going into pediatric anything, here’s a good rule to follow.:Don’t try to make the kid friends with whatever will stab or cut them.
H. Al.
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