About nine years ago, I wrote a blog post about being squeamish. You can read it here:
Over those nine years, you may have thought that I had finally overcome my squeamishness or at least tried to cope with it. The truth is that I haven’t.
If anything I am worse now.
What has made it so bad for me is that these days more people seem to relish talking about their ailments, their operations and various bits that are going wrong with their bodies and, worse, they seem to want to go into great detail, even for the trivial things.
Picture the scene. I am sitting in an Indian restaurant with Mrs PM, her father and her step mum. We have ordered our food and are currently snacking on some poppadoms with various tasty dips. Mrs PM’s dad and step mum are a lot older than I am (and I consider myself to be an old git) and they know a lot of people their age. The topic of conversation has invariably led to the ailments of some of their friends.
Now, before I go on, I don’t mind hearing that somebody has been to hospital to have a minor operation; I just don’t want the full gory details. The conversation started getting into the nitty gritty of medical issues and procedures. And I mean getting really down and dirty with all of the gory details. Being polite, I allowed this to go on uninterrupted while my inner Mr Squeamish told me that they would change the subject soon. As I crunched through my poppadum, Mrs PM’s dad told us about something that had happened to him.
He used to be very active but due to one thing and another, he can’t walk very far now (he is approaching his mid 80’s). This means that occasionally he has to use a mobility scooter. One day, he had a little accident. There was a mechanical issue and it collapsed under him when he sat on it resulting in a part of it scraping his skin. We all sympathised until he went into more detail about the aftermath. The wound took a while to heal and he insisted on going into all of the gory details, which I won’t repeat here lest I throw up all over my keyboard.
I even tolerated this, dear reader, because it had happened to him. But then, as the main course arrived, I internally shook my head in horror as Mrs PM (who should know better) started talking about an eye operation that she had heard about or watched on one of those horrific medical programmes she insists on watching.
That was too much. Mr Squeamish screamed at me and I went into full blown rant mode. Of all the body parts I have a problem with, eyes are the worst.
“THAT’S ENOUGH!” I yelled, possibly too loudly. “I’ve heard about Mrs Smith’s operation and I’ve heard about Mrs PM’s dad’s minor mobility accident. You’ve been talking about cysts, people being sliced open, blood and other monstrous body incidents for twenty minutes now. And now you want to talk about EYES! Unless you want to see me be violently ill on this table, please, please, PLEASE change the subject.”
What was the reaction?
They all burst out laughing. Mrs PM’s step mum said:
“OOOH! I’d forgotten how squeamish you are.”
Thankfully they took pity on me and changed the subject, but not before a couple of witty barbs were hurled my way.
This highlights an issue that I am noticing more and more, possibly because people around me, friends and relatives etc. are all getting older and with that age increase there are more ailments to talk about because more people are getting them.
And I hate that.
I wouldn’t mind if people just mentioned it so that I knew; people insist on the entire gory details. I hate that. People are even talking about their pets in this way.
“Oh little Tiddles had to have a massive boil lanced from her paw. When the vet cut it with the scalpel, all this yellow pus came out but that wasn’t the worst bit. After that …”
STOP IT!
All I want to know is that Tiddles went to the vet for a minor procedure.
Why do I need to know what that procedure is?
Is Tiddles okay now?
Yes?
Fine!
That’s enough!
I know that this is going to get worse but you can rest assured, dear reader, that if I have to have an operation, be it major or minor, I will not mention it on this blog. There will be no photographs of wounds or scars and no elaborate descriptions of the procedure or the aftermath.
AND THERE WILL DEFINITELY BE NO TALK ABOUT EYES!
I wouldn’t put you through that trauma.
Why? Because Mr Squeamish doesn’t just live inside me; he lives inside many people.
Treat him with kindness.
