Today a nurse came to my office to administer flu vaccines. She set up a makeshift clinic for the entire floor, including other companies, not far from my cubicle. I overheard about 50 people get flu shots. Amazingly, nobody seemed phased. If someone said something before receiving the shot, it was “Is it going to hurt?” Some girls who I recognized from the communal restroom giggled excessively, but that’s normal for them. One man yakked on his cell phone.
I didn’t sign up for a flu shot because I’ve suffered my whole life from needlephobia (or, as the Ancient Greeks called it, belonephobia). If I had received a flu shot, to avoid fainting, I would have had to: Put my head between my knees, take deep breaths, and recite a Gentile joke (here): A Gentile goes into a clothing store and says: “This is a very fine jacket. How much is it?” The salesman says: “It’s $500.” The Gentile says, “OK, I’ll take it.”
What’s it like to faint, you wonder? As someone who has fainted over a dozen times, I am a self-proclaimed expert.
Prior to fainting, I will be light-headed and spacey from anywhere from 2 minutes to 10 seconds. I’ve improved with age, so now I can usually talk myself “back to Earth.” By the time I realize that fainting is imminent, it’s too late.
Suddenly I’m in a dream. It’s a vivid, marvelous dream that takes place outdoors. Once I rolled down a grassy hill. Another time I jumped up and down in a shallow lake. Sometimes other people will be nearby. Never have my fainting dreams been bad or unpleasant.
I awake, always with someone touching or shaking me. This moment is always scary. Imagine waking from a deep sleep, in public, surrounded by staring strangers, with no recollection as to what just happened. I’m absolutely confounded. What happened to my wonderful dream? Why am I on the floor?
