ChickSpeak

Boston College’s own Laura Ting reflects on the ins and outs of Infirmary visits, self medication and the things that reduce us to whimpering “I just want to go home to mom,” balls of mush.

From BC Heights, October 1, 2007

I didn’t get any sleep last week. Neither did my roommate. What this means is that I was sick. Really sick. Too sick to even watch TV. And Best Week Ever was on, too.

The answer was obvious: Go to the infirmary. Obvious, that is, to everyone but me.

I will admit that I am afraid of medical care. I am impatient and hate reading old magazines (the ones you would find in a medical office), but I mainly trace this fear back to my childhood, when, as far as I can tell, each medical professional’s reaction to every physical problem I developed, including nearsightedness, was to stick me with a needle.

“You won’t feel a thing!” they’d lie as they prepped a needle only slightly larger than a redwood trunk. As a child, I was more afraid of having my blood drawn than alligators in the toilet or my grandmother. My grandmother, at least, gave no pretenses. And her stories may just get me a book deal some day.

Of course, today I no longer have this juvenile phobia, because, as a mature young adult, I can lie.

“Why, I just had a blood test this morning!” I can tell anyone, should the issue ever arise. “Six of them, in fact!”

But I’m still wary of medical care. And I’m not comforted by medical dramas on TV such as Grey’s Anatomy or House. Now, I understand that those shows aren’t indicative of real life, since doctors are too busy to be that interesting, and I’ve finally resigned myself to the fact that Hugh Laurie will never limp into my life. But give me a chance to explain myself.

At the collegiate level, things are certainly different. As long as we’ve all had our meningitis boosters, as far as most of us students are concerned, everything from eczema to leprosy can be taken care of by a few Tylenols and a tube of Bengay. There’s also the pitfall known as Unlicensed Self-Medication. Twisted ankle? Walk it off! Suspicious mole? Concealer! Loss of sight in one eye? Shots!

Yet when an epidemic strikes campus- and boy, does it hit hard - it can reduce even the most seasoned undergrad to whimpering, “I just want to come home” to his mom over the phone.

Continued online at The BC Heights here.