THE BORN LESAR

But Mommy, what if I don't wanna get a shot?

There are some things of which I'm genuinely scaredy-cat afraid -- ghosts, for example -- but a needle poke in the deltoid muscle of my upper arm is not one of them. That said, I am still hoping that by the time my turn comes up for a COVID-19 vaccination, they will have figured out how to put it in a sugar cube like they used to do for some inoculations when I was a kid.

You know, those really were the good ol' days.

For the record, then, I hereby do commit myself to a COVID shot, but only when all others in greater need of it than myself have received one. Heck, I'll wait until very last to get my shot, not just because I'm that selfless and concerned for others' health, mind you, but because I just hate it when I cry in front of a pretty nurse. I try to tell them I'm just a sensitive guy; they say I'm a big baby. Well, fine, as long as I get a Scooby-Doo Band-Aid, what's the big diff?

I've never counted how many times I've been stuck in the muscle by a medical professional, but considering that I usually get an annual influenza vaccination, I'd say it's several dozen. I've had three in the last few months, matter of fact, including a dual stick to protect myself against shingles. I asked the nurse if I should get one against siding, too, but she said sometimes it's best not to make dumb jokes to the person holding the pointy thing. By the look in here eyes, she meant it.

My personal vaccination record, of course, dates back to when I was an infant, and the doctor recommended to my parents that I get the traditional shots against polio, mumps, measles, smallpox and girl germs. Those first pokes, I'm told, went right into my plump baby butt cheek, for which I screamed, held my breath, and threatened a malpractice lawsuit. In later years, I recall lining up with my school mates on inoculation day, and we'd all stand there like broiler chickens waiting to walk up to the little scissor thing that would cut off our heads before we were plucked.

Once in a while -- hope on hope -- we wouldn't have to get a shot, and the vaccination was just dribbled onto a sugar cube. For whatever reason, I remember the cube being slightly saturated with purple liquid, and we'd walk away thinking how lucky we were to avoid being the only one in the second-grade class who cried already when the nurse said, 'Next.' I mean, c'mon, geez, I wasn't bawling, my eyes just water a lot when I see a needle the size of a jackhammer bit ripping into my tender skin, OK?

I have to admit, it's still unnerving to get a shot, even though I know the painful prick lasts just a second. It's just the idea that here's this person, holding this intricately-machined needle, and they're going to push it through my protective coating and into my bloodstream. I mean, think about it, if you were anyplace else, and a stranger approached you with a sharp object, you wouldn't just let them plunge it into you, but in the doctor's office, you say, 'Aw, sure, what the heck. Shove it in as hard as you want. And thank you. I appreciate your efforts.'

At least with vaccinations, you can see the process as it happens. Most often, the nurse will suggest that you look away so you do not actually witness the moment when your body is violently violated by a foreign object, but I tend to glance over anyway just to reconcile in my mind that she's going to hurt me and I've approved it ahead of time and that it's all for a good cause.

At the dentist office, now that's a different story. First off, they've got you positioned in this reclining chair like you're pinned into your car seat after plunging 40 feet down a steep ravine, and the bulk of your 6-gallon blood supply has pooled in your 2-gallon skull. Then, just in the periphery of your vision, you see the flash of something that could be either a needle or a Samurai warrior's sword, and the dentist says, 'Hold still, just a little poke.' The object he's wielding now disappears into your mouth, and it's at that very moment you realize he's going to ram a needle into your gum, which is about as sensitive as the tissue under your fingernails, or maybe your eyeball. Again, it'd be better if you could watch, 'cuz then you'd know when to expect the pain, but now he's got nine fingers and a suction hose in your mouth so when you feel the stick, all you can get out is a muffled 'eeeiiighghh.' Or something like that. I usually pass out while I'm making it.

I've had one other, shall we say, interesting experience with a needle. This one occurred just over 23 year ago -- I know the exact date, in case you were wondering -- and I was in a sterile surgical procedure room for a little maneuver that would, well, make sure I would not be a father again. No, no court order, just a personal choice. Thanks for asking. So present that day were, of course, myself (not without some major encouragement from my then wife), a rather pretty nurse, and a pleasant yet professional doctor. As they did their prep work, they explained the upcoming procedure to me, I asked some questions (such as 'Are there any back doors out of which I could sneak?'), and the nurse reached for the instrument tray to begin. The first item she produced -- and I totally didn't see this one coming -- was a needle, as in, 'You're gonna stick that where?'

I suppose I had expected some more general anaesthetic, maybe gas, you know, but on the doctor proceeded to aim the needle at a physiological region that a man tends not to let anything approach, no matter how dull.

'Little pinch,' he said. I cried. 'Big baby,' the nurse said.

I vowed that very minute that I'd never let another human stick a needle in me for any reason that didn't involve a direct cash payment, but I've had to soften my stance through the years. As far as modern medicine has come, unfortunately, there's still no more effective means of administering some medicines and all vaccines than with a needle inserted directly into tissue. It's quick, it's effective, and, well, sometimes just necessary.

So I'll get my COVID vaccination, to help increase the herd immunity so we can all get past this pandemic. All I can say, is, they'd better have Snoopy Band-Aids.