A shot in the arm

By Father DAVID L. EPPS
Contributing Writer

Two weeks ago, on a Wednesday, around 3:35 p.m. I was shot in Fayetteville in the left arm. Ok, I wasn't really shot. But I DID have to go to the Fayette County Health Department and get a shot, for typhoid, I think. On the other hand, one would have thought that I was about to really be shot instead of just get one.

I hate shots. I detest shots. When it comes to shots, I am the coward of the county. Funny, isn't it? I've been in the Marines, worked in child protective services (child abuse) for a state agency, played seven years of football, fought in full-contact karate tournaments, been on patrol with the police, and survived numerous church board meetings. You'd think I'd be ready for anything.

In the course of my life, I've been screamed at, cursed at, punched at, pushed at, stabbed at, shot at, and had my life and the life of my family threatened; and, no, not all of those were at church board meetings. Yet, when it comes to getting a shot, I assume the character of Daffy Duck who once said, "I'm not like other people; pain hurts me!"

My wife knows that I hate shots. When she was in nursing school, she came home one day and announced that she needed to practice giving shots and drawing blood. I thought she was going to practice on a watermelon or something. When she said she wanted to practice on me, I drew back in horror and yelled, "You must be on dope!" For me, an oral thermometer is an invasive medical procedure.

When I went into the Marines, they failed to tell me that, in boot camp, you get 103 shots. Well, it seemed like 103 shots. Don't get me wrong; I don't faint, or pass out, or throw up. I don't even mind the sight of blood as long as it's someone else's blood. I just dread knowing that a shot is coming.

Once, a few years ago, I was ill. In fact, it was about the sickest I'd ever been. I asked my wife to call the doctor and try to get me in. The doc went to our church so he told me to come right in (it's who you know, ya know). Cindy said, "David, he said to come in and he'll give you some shots." When I started to get out of bed, pull on my clothes, and said, "Ok, let's go," she knew that I must be very, very sick, indeed. It's the only time I felt so bad that I wanted the shot.

When I went to Kenya and Uganda in 1998, I had to get seven shots. I scheduled four of them at the health department for a certain day and the other three at an infectious disease place in another town for the following week. After dreading the four shots for two weeks, the day finally came and I offered my arms up and took them like a man. When I got back to the car, I called the infectious disease place and said that I would be in the neighborhood so could I just come in and get the three shots, failing to tell them that I just had received four. They said, "Sure," so I did. Seven shots in one morning! It wasn't that I was being brave, it's that I didn't want to be in a state of dread for another whole week. My doctor and nurse friends were aghast when they learned what I had done; something about all those "bugs crawling through my blood system at once," one said.

My wife always makes the mistake of saying, "David, you have to get shots three weeks from today." That's way too much time to think about it. It would work much better if she would say, "David, we have to be at the health department in 20 minutes where you have to get seven shots at once." I've seen all those people on "Fear Factor" eating maggots and worms and stuff. I bet they wouldn't be so cool if they knew they had to get seven shots to win the game!

Anyway, I went to the Health Department on a Wednesday to get my shot. I thought I was going to get three shots, but my record and the requirements of the Philippines indicated that I just needed the typhoid shot. There is a God. My appointment was at 3:30 p.m., so I arrived at 3:00, hoping that they would be impressed with me and give it to me at 3:05 so my dread would be cut short by half an hour. It doesn't work that way, I discovered.

So, at 3:30, my appointment time, my wife and I walked down the hall to meet the executioner, er, the nurse. Carolyn Ann Callison, RN, was sweet, encouraging, and all smiles. I confided to her that I was a coward, a fact which she had already deduced, being experienced in such matters. My wife received her shots, two to be exact, and then it was my turn. I conjured up thoughts about John Wayne, Rocky Balboa, the Alamo, the flag, Iwo Jima, the Normandy Invasion, and the fall of the Berlin Wall as I gathered up my courage. Finally, the moment came. I took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and relaxed my arm.

Before I realized that I was stuck, it was over. I hadn't felt a thing! A painless shot! If I hadn't been a priest, and a married one at that, I would have kissed Nurse Callison! Of course, she might have slapped me, so that probably would have been a bad idea. Still, she's a great nurse! In any event, it's over so I can go back to being brave. At least, until the next time.