'How old are you?'
she demanded, advancing like a cheetah on an antelope.
I guess my submissive body positioning, makeupless face, and tears at a standard procedure failed to project the maturity I thought I possessed, few years post-adolescent.
"21"
I revealed, embarrassed by the combination of my fetal position and her tone of voice. I would have liked nothing more than to suggest an age for which it would be appropriate to burst into tears with needles and have my parents accompany me on hospital stays.
She, of the warrior-survivor sort, resumed with her interrogative tactics, interspersed with bits of "I've had worse" and "only idiots like you don't have ports".
She took my age as a desperate sign that I needed to be saved (as I should know better) and less than subtly conveyed this in her sales pitch. I would soon "come to terms with it" and "realize how much better off I'd be".
I wanted nothing more than for her to shut up and let me wallow in my melodrama over a bad vein.
She described her experience with cancer and ports confidently, with the strength I had so often feigned when discussing my own situation with those I felt would not be able to handle it otherwise. She discussed the port with the condescending tone reminiscent of the girls in elementary school who were the first to get burberry purses for christmas. I was slightly offended.
My mother's vapid alarm at 'yet another scar' did not help my case.
She further shared that she had a tattoo over her scar, to further the differentiation between us. She, wise and courageous, exhibited comfort with all things sharp and frightening. How special.
But, as I mentally defended, its not the needles that cause the hysterics so much anymore. No, with weekly sticks, pricks, and jabs I've have plenty of opportunities to display my ease and calm. My deteriorating veins, however, are another story. The tattoo'd woman above commented on how 'small' they are. Once upon they were referred to as "juicy"(I'm sure that was meant as a compliment..?). I'm not sure how I feel knowing that the pathways for my lifeblood have expirations. Or that I'm slowly damaging the infrastructure of my circulatory system with every injection. every hit or miss attempt to wrestle a vein into submission with a catheter. But please, put the disdain on drip and let it settle in like the rest of this poison. I'm used to it.
Had I been in a less fragile state, I might have lashed out at her. As many do when revisiting a situation in their minds, I reconstructed the flow of conversation with a few choice quotes.
Namely, I would combat the ever-present one-up-ing that tends to come up in the cancer conversations. For one reason or another, people feel compelled to relay how much worse off they are, as if to suggest I lost a contest for not being terminal and should just fucking get over it. You have hodgkins? I have non hodgkins. You had two bone marrow biopsies? I had 12.
I would probably also call her out, perhaps incorrectly, for casting herself as this tough, devil-may-care cancer survivor with a tattoo over the scar of a procedure I don't want to (and shouldn't have to) get. Or maybe suggesting that, although she's no longer the one in the hospital bed, she could try to show just the slightest amount of sensitivity to someone whose shoes she professes to have been in not so long ago. I imagine she felt very pleased with herself, as she said she "would want someone to tell her" - the sort of phrase one uses when telling your exboyfriend's new girlfriend he's a cheater. I feel it to be far less appropriate in this situation. Though that could be applied to her preaching and patronizing in general.
it reminds me of the stereotypical pledge-fraternity relationship. You don't like getting lit on fire? Ya, well, I went through it so you should feel privileged for the opportunity.
Though, unlike a typical semester, there's no hell week (with reward of initiation) in sight.
she demanded, advancing like a cheetah on an antelope.
I guess my submissive body positioning, makeupless face, and tears at a standard procedure failed to project the maturity I thought I possessed, few years post-adolescent.
"21"
I revealed, embarrassed by the combination of my fetal position and her tone of voice. I would have liked nothing more than to suggest an age for which it would be appropriate to burst into tears with needles and have my parents accompany me on hospital stays.
She, of the warrior-survivor sort, resumed with her interrogative tactics, interspersed with bits of "I've had worse" and "only idiots like you don't have ports".
She took my age as a desperate sign that I needed to be saved (as I should know better) and less than subtly conveyed this in her sales pitch. I would soon "come to terms with it" and "realize how much better off I'd be".
I wanted nothing more than for her to shut up and let me wallow in my melodrama over a bad vein.
She described her experience with cancer and ports confidently, with the strength I had so often feigned when discussing my own situation with those I felt would not be able to handle it otherwise. She discussed the port with the condescending tone reminiscent of the girls in elementary school who were the first to get burberry purses for christmas. I was slightly offended.
My mother's vapid alarm at 'yet another scar' did not help my case.
She further shared that she had a tattoo over her scar, to further the differentiation between us. She, wise and courageous, exhibited comfort with all things sharp and frightening. How special.
But, as I mentally defended, its not the needles that cause the hysterics so much anymore. No, with weekly sticks, pricks, and jabs I've have plenty of opportunities to display my ease and calm. My deteriorating veins, however, are another story. The tattoo'd woman above commented on how 'small' they are. Once upon they were referred to as "juicy"(I'm sure that was meant as a compliment..?). I'm not sure how I feel knowing that the pathways for my lifeblood have expirations. Or that I'm slowly damaging the infrastructure of my circulatory system with every injection. every hit or miss attempt to wrestle a vein into submission with a catheter. But please, put the disdain on drip and let it settle in like the rest of this poison. I'm used to it.
Had I been in a less fragile state, I might have lashed out at her. As many do when revisiting a situation in their minds, I reconstructed the flow of conversation with a few choice quotes.
Namely, I would combat the ever-present one-up-ing that tends to come up in the cancer conversations. For one reason or another, people feel compelled to relay how much worse off they are, as if to suggest I lost a contest for not being terminal and should just fucking get over it. You have hodgkins? I have non hodgkins. You had two bone marrow biopsies? I had 12.
I would probably also call her out, perhaps incorrectly, for casting herself as this tough, devil-may-care cancer survivor with a tattoo over the scar of a procedure I don't want to (and shouldn't have to) get. Or maybe suggesting that, although she's no longer the one in the hospital bed, she could try to show just the slightest amount of sensitivity to someone whose shoes she professes to have been in not so long ago. I imagine she felt very pleased with herself, as she said she "would want someone to tell her" - the sort of phrase one uses when telling your exboyfriend's new girlfriend he's a cheater. I feel it to be far less appropriate in this situation. Though that could be applied to her preaching and patronizing in general.
it reminds me of the stereotypical pledge-fraternity relationship. You don't like getting lit on fire? Ya, well, I went through it so you should feel privileged for the opportunity.
Though, unlike a typical semester, there's no hell week (with reward of initiation) in sight.
