Getting stabbed.

I am the biggest wimp you will ever meet in your entire life.

Seriously.  My tolerance for pain is non-existent.  7 months pregnant with my daughter, I remember waddling out of a prenatal class during which we had watched a birthing video, and proclaiming matter-of-factly to my husband, "I am not doing that."  To which he pointed to my giant belly and replied, "uh, yes you are."  And I said, "No.  I don't think you understand.  I'm not doing that.  I am NOT going to have contractions, and I will NOT be pushing 7+ pounds of baby out of my V.  Sorry."  Thankfully, Mackenzie turned herself around into the breech position at the beginning of the 8th month, so I got to have a nice, happy, contraction-free, drug-filled, planned c-section.  Not that it was without it's wimpy moments - I bitched and whined my way through all of my prenatal blood work appointments; I refused to cooperate with the anesthetist, and cried and screamed when they did the spinal before my c-section; I had an epic meltdown over the catheter; I even cried when they made me drink that gross salty shit to help "open my spine."  And on it goes.

Two years later, when I was in the same hospital getting ready to have my son, I was in the throes of having a giant, dramatic fit about getting the IV put in my arm.  I noticed a flash of recognition cross the nurse's face, and she suddenly said, "HEY!  I remember YOU!"

(This was in Nelson.  I know it was a small hospital, but really.  Two years later?  They STILL remembered me?  That's a little embarrassing.)

Anyway, today I had to go down to the public health unit to get immunized for the program I am planning on taking at TRU in the fall.  When the program paperwork came in the mail a couple months ago, and I saw that I would need immunizations, I honestly considered NOT taking the program after all.  Today, I needed two needles in my left arm (with more where that came from, in 30 days' time), and a Tuberculosis skin test on the inside of my right forearm.  I mistakenly believed that a "skin test" meant a sweet little gentle swab with a soft fuzzy Q-Tip.  But guess what?

I WAS WRONG.

It was TOTALLY NOT a frickin' Q-Tip, and let me tell you, it hurt like a bitch!!!  I was OK with the two needles in my arm - I was kind of shaking and I did get a little sweaty and nervous but overall I think I did OK.  The nurse then told me that was the worst part, that it would be worse than the TB skin test.

But when she stuck the needle in my forearm, (NOT A Q-TIP, PEOPLE, A BIG FAT GODDAMN NEEDLE!!!!!!), I yelled "JESUS CHRIST, THAT FRICKIN' HURTS!"  Then, there's a chance I might have called her a giant liar for saying the other part hurt more.

She informed me that it's been awhile since someone swore at her.

You're welcome, Nurse.