Mr Squeamish (Part Two)

 

About nine years ago, I wrote a blog post about being squeamish. You can read it here: 

Mr Squeamish 

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. 

Mr Squeamish

The other day, I sat down on my sofa with my evening meal and started watching a television programme that both Mrs PM and I really like. I started eating and watched the next scene – and almost retched.

I saw a man lying on an operating table with his chest cut open and a doctor probing the red mess inside.

“Oh for God’s sake!” I exclaimed covering my eyes. “I’m eating  my dinner!”

I kind of hoped that the doctor on the TV would turn to me and say “Sorry Dave, we’ll move on to a more tasteful scene while you eat!”

Of course, he didn’t and I did my usual trick; I turned to Mrs PM and said “Tell me when it’s over.”

She just laughed, as she usually does and watched avidly, chomping on her food as if nothing odd was happening.

Deep down, I knew that the bloody scene on my television screen was not real and, in fact, was the product of the special effects department at the studio. Yet I couldn’t help myself. I waited until Mrs PM gave me the all clear.

There’s a deep irony here, dear reader, because a lot of the shows I like contain a lot of gore and blood and guts are frequently exposed. Yet each time I cringe inwardly and my stomach lurches because I simply cannot stand the sight of blood, real or otherwise.

I am squeamishness personified – I am Mr Squeamish.

I think if I were to injure myself I would pass out, not from shock, but from the sight of my own blood.

It’s embarrassing.

Many years ago, I had a blood test and, as the nurse, prepared my arm, she could tell that something was wrong.

“Are you okay?” she said.

“I’m a little squeamish,” I said.

“Most men are,” she said in a tone that was not meant to be mocking but somehow made me feel ashamed. I had to look away as she inserted the needle and drew out my lifeblood.

“There – it’s all over,” she said with a smile when she had finished. I felt like a child.

I’m not a big fan of needles, generally, and have similar experiences when I have to have a vaccination for trips abroad. One nurse actually told me off once because I was so tense that she was struggling to push the needle into my skin.

“Just relax,” she said, again as if I were a five year old. “The tenser you are, the longer this will take and the more it will hurt.”

It’s the same story at the dentist. My last major dental operation was to have a crown replaced and that experience was totally unpleasant, from the injection in my gum to the ripping out of the existing crown. I hate the sound of metal against metal or metal against enamel and I had to endure what seemed like an eternity as the dentist grinded his pliers against my crown in a desperate attempt to pull the thing off.

I also have a thing about eyes. My eyesight is terrible and many years ago I wanted to try contact lenses so that I could play football without being blind. The cost of a contact lens trial at the optician was £10 and I may as well have simply set fire to the note instead of handing over to the optician.

As soon as he went anywhere near to my eye, I flinched and pushed him away.

“Look,” he said in exasperation. “You have to let me do this.”

In the end, I turned as white as a ghost and felt extremely nauseous, so much so that he stopped immediately and offered me a glass of water.

“Are you going to be sick?” he asked, now looking concerned (probably more for the state of his consultancy room than for me).

“Maybe, “ I said trying desperately to hold onto the contents of my stomach.

Thankfully I survived and after five minutes I managed to pull myself together and walk out of the optician with his words ringing in my ears:

“You are too sensitive for contact lenses.”

Really he meant:

“You are too squeamish for contact lenses.”

Happily, I am not the most squeamish person I know. There is a guy at work who cringes at the very mention of the word “needle”. This weakness was exploited to maximum effect the other week. For some reason I mentioned the fact that the vaccination nurse had struggled to insert the needle in my arm because of the tense knotted muscles and he visibly looked shaken. I shall call him Mr Ultrasqueam.

“Just shut up,” he ordered.

“Why?” I asked.

“I pharrking HATE needles; they make me feel ill!” he exclaimed.

My desk buddies at work love this kind of stuff. When a member of the desk exposes a weakness, it is exploited with maximum prejudice and we all join in an attack, like sharks circling a drowning man in the sea.

Another desk buddy started laughing and told me in no uncertain terms that I was an utter wimp. He then went on to describe an operation that he had had in great detail involving needles, scalpels, a local anaesthetic and a very, very vulnerable part of the male anatomy.

He went into great detail including the mishaps. I won’t mention this in detail (in order to maintain the good taste element of my blog) but suffice it to say that Mr Ultrasqueam covered his ears with his hands and started shouting:

“For phark’s sake SHUT UP!”

There was blood in the water now and no mercy was shown. Other tales of needle mishaps and nasty operations were mentioned by other buddies and in the end the colour started draining from Mr Ultrasqueam’s face as he desperately implored us to shut up.

“I thought I was squeamish,” I said laughing, “but in my case I have to actually see the needle.”

“STOP MENTIONING PHARKING NEEDLES!” he screamed.

At this point we relented, in case he actually threw up. But it was hilarious.

A little later, when he had recovered, he said:

“If I EVER have to have even a minor operation, I will order them to give me a general anaesthetic so that I don’t have to be there when they start cutting and hacking.”

“You do know that they give you a local anaesthetic with a needle,” I said.

“STOP MENTIONING PHARRKING NEEDLES!” he shouted again.

I will remember this next time I am the victim of our wonderful banter.

In fact, I think I might start calling him "Needles"!

How about you, dear reader?

Are you as squeamish as Mr Squeamish (i.e. me)?

Are you as bad as Mr Ultrasqueam?