10/31/2005. Flu season

The menace of le grippe aviaire--bird flu--has been in the French papers nearly every day for the past several weeks. As cases of avian flu were confirmed among birds here and there in eastern Europe, the continent is bracing itself for the worst.

Me too. I know that this year, I really had better get a flu shot--no ifs, ands, or buts about it. I'm living in a country with the world's best health care system, and everywhere I go, I see public service announcements advising me to get vaccinated--NOW. Plus, with Denis' being a doctor, getting my shot couldn't be easier. My own "personal physician" will administer it anytime I'm ready.



Precisely. He--Denis, that is--wants to know just when, in fact, that will be. The box of vaccine from the pharmacy--all blue, red, white, and serious-looking--has been in our refrigerator for over a couple of weeks now. I had delayed the shot because of an unexpected trip to Dakar the week before last. We all know that there is a slight chance that the vaccine might provoke flu-like symptoms--and I didn't want to be feeling ill during three hectic days in Africa.

That sounds reasonable, doesn't it? Reasonable, yes--but not really truthful. The truth is, I am simply phobic about injections. I hate needles. I have had this unreasonable fear as far back as memory can take me. I can remember clinging to a heavy floor lamp in the living room to avoid being dragged off to the pediatrician for my annual shots. In fact, I referred to that stern old doctor--whose name was Scott--as "Dr. Shot." He clearly lived for the moment when he could stick me with his gigantic (in my eyes) needles. And I hated my mother (fleetingly, of course) for what I perceived as her hypocritically sympathetic smirk as she looked on during this merciless procedure. How could she--my own mother!--abandon me to the sinister doctor? I simply lost all semblance of reason when it came to injections.



And I still do. While I no longer resort to floor lamps, I do rely on any number of other evasive tactics to avoid contact with the needle. I hedge. I plead. I disappear. The reasonable me looks on during these games with disgust. Trained as a microbiologist, I completely understand the benefits of vaccination and I understand perfectly how vaccines work. Nor am I generally squeamish; I once observed a 4-hour surgery, peering into a gaping chest incision with fascination. I'm not even particularly especially sensitive to pain. The ironic thing is that my panic before the injection is of course infinitely more painful than the injection itself.

I also know it's useless to apply the rules of logic to my (or anyone else's) phobia. The reasons for my unreasonable panic are lodged deep in the shadowy recesses of my psyche. I'm not sure it's worthwhile knowing just where. In the language of modern pop pschology, forget Freud and just deal with the inappropriate behavior. In order that long-suffering Denis may be successful in cornering me with the hypodermic, I have explained my fears. He now knows that if he becomes--however rightly--abrupt and impatient with my ridiculous scenarios of avoidance, that he will only make the situation worse. Jokes and threats don't work either. When he appeared at the country house brandishing a giant syringe used for cow enemas (part of our antique tool collection), saying he was ready to give me my flu shot, I quietly swore it wouldn't be for at least two more weeks. Little did he know that, in my imagination, the hypodermic already possessed epic proportions roughly equal to those of the giant killer ant in a 60's horror flick I saw as a kid.



In past years, Denis had made the situation worse by showing me how he would slap the spot with the flat of his hand a couple of times before plunging the needle home. That way, he assured me, I wouldn't feel a thing. This only horrified me further, because that's how I had been instructed by a veterinarian to give injections to the milk cow I once had. "That's probably how they taught you here in France way back when you went to medical school," I jeered, taunting him at once for his age and his nationality. "What do you think I am--a cow?!" Part of myself--the Reasonable Me--stood looking over my shoulder in horror at this Dr. Jekyll part of my personality. I Of course, in the grips of my panic, I wanted to be coddled a bit--perhaps cuddled and soothed sympathetically--before the evil needle was slid into my quivering flesh. I certainly didn't want to be whacked like a piece of livestock.

Finally--through a mixture of Denis' calm resolve and my knowing that I had exhausted all my ploys of postponement, I agreed to submit. "Don't open that box in front of me!" I yelled. The sight of the Instrument increases my panic. Denis patiently turned his back as he removed the syringe from the box. "Not in the shoulder!" I said, flopping face down on the bed in sullen defeat. "In the hip--don't you know you have fewer nerves there?" (Mostly, I found clutching the pillow over my face comforting.)

I felt Denis pinch up some flesh, a little prick and--hop!--the deed was done. It was nothing. Of course, intellectually, I knew all along that it would be just that--nothing! What did that knowledge change about my unreasonable behavior? Nothing! Whew! Safe until next year...

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