I am a wuss!
The first time I remember being a wuss was when I was a freshman in high school health. I remember Mrs. Backman going over the details of compound fractures and explaining the first aid that should be administered. Other students were fascinated and asking multiple questions. But I sat quietly. The room began spinning and my stomach felt shaky. There is not much that is more embarrassing than having to draw attention to yourself in a freshman high school class by raising your hand and telling the teacher that you are going to be ill. Thankfully, she was sympathetic and excused me to step out for some air.
The episodes have continued. I don't know what it is about dilated eyeballs and nicotine patches that make me so sick, but I'll be darned if any detailed thought about them doesn't send me into queasiness. As a senior in high school the Red Cross lady told me it would probably be best if I didn't even try to give blood. Apparently, my blood isn't worth the hassle of reviving me if I passed out or the mess if I threw up in their care.
On one of my first visits with Ben's parents, the embarrassing wussiness came to light again. Ben's mom had recently been in the hospital and began telling us what had happened. When she started to describe details, I almost lost it. I tried to request that the description stop, but it seems difficult for many people to believe how wussy I can actually be. Finally, when I had to stand up and leave the room, the seriousness was conveyed.
I wish I didn't have this weakness. I wish I was as tough as my kids when it comes to gorey things. Heck, I wish I could at least articulate what it is exactly that triggers me... I also wish the word nauseous didn't make me sick, but it does, so I try to stick with queasy. I know this is really strange, isn't it?
On Saturday when I was making scalloped potatoes for Easter dinner, I scalloped myself. The slicer was dull and on the last potato for the dish, I sliced off the knuckle on my middle finger. I did a fantastic job of it. It seems that my knuckle was about the only thing the slicer was slicing well. Almost instantly I was bleeding, in pain and worst of all, the thought of what I had done was making me incredibly queasy. Luckily, Ben came to my aid. Even though my mom was standing right there next to me, the wuss gene is highly hereditary and she was as disgusted as I was. For three days I wasn't even able to look at the wound when Ben was changing the bandage for me. Finally, on Tuesday, I was able to look at it and even snap a couple of pictures. I don't believe these pictures really do it justice or show the depth of the wound. It still hurts! See, I warned you that I'm a wuss...