I ventured up to the local doctors yesterday to get my holiday vaccinations sorted. There was a young kid in the waiting room with a pretty horrendous nose bleed, but his parents were keeping him calm with the promise of a fresh McDonalds and coronary heart disease when he hits 40. Watching that crimson waterfall splash down his porky little face provided little comfort as I contemplated the impending horrors. My previous experiences with inter-vein penetration had been mixed.
Firstly, there was typhoid. I was 10 years old.
It wouldn’t be an embellishment of the truth to say that the syringe was equivalent to a bicycle pump and the doctor was practically wielding it like a 12 gauge shotgun. Needless-to-say, I fainted as soon as the toxic concoction spilled out into what felt like my bone marrow. However, as if the embarrassment of fainting wasn’t enough, my Doctor proceeded to watch with contempt as my ragdoll body plummeted towards the corner of his over-sized mahogany desk in what can only be described as a dress rehearsal for the 2006 World Cup final incident between Zidane and Materazzi. After reawakening an indefinite amount of time later I was swiftly ushered out with a swollen skull, a sore arm and a glowing reference of my immense courage and bravery. Personally, I would’ve preferred the more traditional compensation of a lollipop.
Then there was the Hepatitis vaccine; a different animal altogether. Usually when I imagine a scenario which involves me with my trousers around my ankles and a woman in a nurse’s outfit bearing over me, some form of economic transaction has taken place. However, in this instance not only had no money traded hands, but the nurse was fully qualified, she was holding a real syringe, and my mum was sat in the corner with a concerned look plastered across her face. I didn’t fully understand her concern until I felt a sharp and immense pain which was akin to a poorly trained field medic attempting to remove shrapnel from my right cheek. Ouch. I’m not even going to bother elaborating because the puns about little pricks and my rear end practically write themselves.
The only other time I’ve had a mishap was during a bizarre moment of madness in which I declined the offer of anaesthetic in favour of feeling every inch of a cannula wriggle into me like an earthworm on acid burrowing its way through my circulatory system.
Considering that both typhoid and hepatitis vaccines, along with rabies, are recommended for my trip, I might be forgiven for being a little nervous when I heard the harsh screech of the Tannoy instructing me to proceed to the nurses office for testing.
It turned out the nurse was actually quite friendly, maybe even a little too friendly. As she prepped the hepatitis shot and asked me to pull out the twins, I was both relieved and a little disappointed to hear that my trousers were staying on. Then, all of a sudden, she pounced like a stealthy ninja. Initially I thought that was just the primer, a shot to calm me down, to sedate me before Dr. Mengele turned up to do his worst.
A few moments past... I still felt alert and there were no Nazi war criminals bursting through the door. I asked if that was it; apparently so. One down, six to go and I was feeling optimistic about the rest until the nurse couldn’t figure out how many more appointments I would need. I pointed out that I had six injections left and, contrary to rumoured fact, I only had the two guns at my disposal, which means three more appointments. Bearing in mind that I was relying on this women to a) give me the right vaccine and; b) give me the correct dosage, her nervous laughter didn’t fill me with confidence.
As I got up to leave the nurse suggested I bring my wallet with me next time. My momentary excitement was crushed when she informed me the money was not to slip into her garter, but to pay the £90 fee for the rabies shot. Fortunately (perhaps not the most appropriate choice of word), vaccines for typhoid and hepatitis a and b are free on the NHS because they’re still common diseases in the UK – so you’ll be glad to know your hard earned has gone someway to funding my trip.
In one weeks time I shall be returning to get the second round of jabs. Messrs Truth and Justice are primed and ready. Bring on the typhoid.
Firstly, there was typhoid. I was 10 years old.
It wouldn’t be an embellishment of the truth to say that the syringe was equivalent to a bicycle pump and the doctor was practically wielding it like a 12 gauge shotgun. Needless-to-say, I fainted as soon as the toxic concoction spilled out into what felt like my bone marrow. However, as if the embarrassment of fainting wasn’t enough, my Doctor proceeded to watch with contempt as my ragdoll body plummeted towards the corner of his over-sized mahogany desk in what can only be described as a dress rehearsal for the 2006 World Cup final incident between Zidane and Materazzi. After reawakening an indefinite amount of time later I was swiftly ushered out with a swollen skull, a sore arm and a glowing reference of my immense courage and bravery. Personally, I would’ve preferred the more traditional compensation of a lollipop.
Then there was the Hepatitis vaccine; a different animal altogether. Usually when I imagine a scenario which involves me with my trousers around my ankles and a woman in a nurse’s outfit bearing over me, some form of economic transaction has taken place. However, in this instance not only had no money traded hands, but the nurse was fully qualified, she was holding a real syringe, and my mum was sat in the corner with a concerned look plastered across her face. I didn’t fully understand her concern until I felt a sharp and immense pain which was akin to a poorly trained field medic attempting to remove shrapnel from my right cheek. Ouch. I’m not even going to bother elaborating because the puns about little pricks and my rear end practically write themselves.
The only other time I’ve had a mishap was during a bizarre moment of madness in which I declined the offer of anaesthetic in favour of feeling every inch of a cannula wriggle into me like an earthworm on acid burrowing its way through my circulatory system.
Considering that both typhoid and hepatitis vaccines, along with rabies, are recommended for my trip, I might be forgiven for being a little nervous when I heard the harsh screech of the Tannoy instructing me to proceed to the nurses office for testing.
It turned out the nurse was actually quite friendly, maybe even a little too friendly. As she prepped the hepatitis shot and asked me to pull out the twins, I was both relieved and a little disappointed to hear that my trousers were staying on. Then, all of a sudden, she pounced like a stealthy ninja. Initially I thought that was just the primer, a shot to calm me down, to sedate me before Dr. Mengele turned up to do his worst.
A few moments past... I still felt alert and there were no Nazi war criminals bursting through the door. I asked if that was it; apparently so. One down, six to go and I was feeling optimistic about the rest until the nurse couldn’t figure out how many more appointments I would need. I pointed out that I had six injections left and, contrary to rumoured fact, I only had the two guns at my disposal, which means three more appointments. Bearing in mind that I was relying on this women to a) give me the right vaccine and; b) give me the correct dosage, her nervous laughter didn’t fill me with confidence.
As I got up to leave the nurse suggested I bring my wallet with me next time. My momentary excitement was crushed when she informed me the money was not to slip into her garter, but to pay the £90 fee for the rabies shot. Fortunately (perhaps not the most appropriate choice of word), vaccines for typhoid and hepatitis a and b are free on the NHS because they’re still common diseases in the UK – so you’ll be glad to know your hard earned has gone someway to funding my trip.
In one weeks time I shall be returning to get the second round of jabs. Messrs Truth and Justice are primed and ready. Bring on the typhoid.
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