I would tell you a joke about a needle in a haystack, but I don’t think you’d see the point!

I’ve ended up in the same conversation a few times over as of late - stories about being adverse to needles. In-fact, I have a massive phobia of needles that has landed me in some hot water over the years. I thought I’d share them down onto my blog, so that you can all have a great laugh at my expense.

 Now, my background covers a lot of medical experiences and training thanks to a varied work life. I’ve seen so many animal accidents, sicknesses, blood and gore you’d think I’d be used to it by now; but no, I’m really not. It all started back when I was young. My father will always deny this; in fact, he calls me silly for it -  but he started it. He used to chase me, put his fingers at the back of my knees and middle of arms and shout “injection time”. I used to hate it, and even now, I absolutely hate being touched behind my knees or my arms. It makes me feel quite physically sick.

As written about previously, I had major health issues throughout my teenage years. The amount of needles, blood samples, canula fittings I endured must have gone well into the hundreds. All you need is a few bad experiences and BOOM! A phobia is born. Fear is completely stupid, because it’s always completely irrational. But that is exactly what it is. If it wasn’t, we’d all be fearless which in turn would lead to a whole different problem. My fellow animal volunteers find it absolutely hilarious (and perplexing) that I can help with an animal that is falling apart because of a road accident, with blood and guts everywhere... and yet I cannot bring myself to give a small subcutaneous injection under the fur. 

One of the first instances that I can remember is being treated at Great Ormond Street Hospital. The nurses took me to a room, and sat me on a chair to take blood. I always remember my mother specifically telling them that I’d need to lay down as I don’t fair very well...  The next thing I know I woke up on the floor. Mum says to this day that I’d gone the colour of the floor.. a very pale medical green!

I used to be on the DEPPO injection - which is basically the ladies pill in needle form. Once every three months I’d have to have an injection into my butt.. and every three months I’d have the same argument with the nurse about laying down, every time I won. Once time my ex-husband came with me and the nurse was insistent that I just needed to bend over and relax... so I did to prove my point. Once again, I woke up with both the nurse and my ex trying to lift me up onto the table. I was as still and as solid as a rock. Thankfully, she made a note then and there never to give me any sort of needle without laying down ever again. Point proven!

Now one of the more frightening times was a few years ago here in Egypt. 2017 was not a good year for me - I was gravely ill for months - I had an infection that had spread inside my body and really did quite a bit of permanent damage. One of the side effects of the medication (not that I knew it at the time!) was that it gave me tachycardia. On more than a few occasions I’d felt like I was having a heart attack. My heart rate would zoom up to 200bpm without me even doing anything. I had to pop up to Cairo for a tonne of tests as the Doctor in Gouna had told me I had slight heart failure. At 32, with no pre-existing issues. 😳 Anywho, I digress...

One of the main tests needed was a dye based CT scan. They inject the dye into your wrist and 15 minutes late you’re put under the scanner to check the walls of the heart. The nurse was kind of aggressive with the dye. You’re meant to administer it slowly, but no... she shunted that damn needle into my hand like a pressure hose. Dan managed to walk me back out into the waiting room before I keeled over in front of everyone. Interestingly, I had the most amazing dream whilst I was “out for the count”. It was a cool British Winter’s day and I was snuggled up under the most amazing duvet. I didn’t want to move or get up, yet something kept on trying to pull me out of this amazing feeling. I woke up with a start. I was covered in sweat, I had four nurses holding my arms and legs up, smelling salts under my nose and a very upset Dan standing above me. They moved me to a small room to recover, and  fed me apple juice to try and get my sugar levels up. I proceeded to tell Dan about my wonderful dream, and almost how horrible it was to wake up again. He went white as a sheet and asked me not to tell him that ever again. It turns out I’d stopped breathing and had been turning blue for nearly a whole minute after I’d fainted. He’d physically slapped me across my face trying to shock me back into life and genuinely thought that momentarily he’d lost me. I had no clue in my happy little place. Interesting to think that IF that’s the other side, well, I won’t worry so much when it is my time - let’s put it that way. I didn’t tell my parents that story for a good year, purely because I thought they’d freak out. I was right!

Last but not least of these experiences revolves more around Dan in the hospital rather than me! Two years ago he had to experience what I can only call a major operation that NO man would ever voluntarily put themselves through. I will not go into details, but lets just say it left a 8 inch scar in a place that is super uncomfortable even today. Due to the way that hospitals work here ... I became his nurse for weeks, whilst this operation healed. What’s worse is that this operation was open/loose stitched as it needed to be healed from the inside out. (I wont post a picture!). Suffice to say that Nurse Jen was excellent at doing everything except for administering the injections, of which, Dan, the poor soul had to do himself as I found myself going dizzy as soon as I’d mixed the antibiotics to flush into the cannula. 

 The best part of this story though, was the check up two weeks later. When the Doctor heard what I’d been doing he’d invited me to take a look at what he had to do next, which involved removing and re-stitching said area. (It was fascinating, I love this kind of thing!) However, the doctor did most of it without giving poor Dan an anaesthetic. Half way through, he called for a morphine needle... and that’s where it all went wrong for me. As soon as I saw the needle, the room suddenly went smaller. I excused myself to go out and get some air. I went to the toilet to splash myself with water and next thing you know, I’m on the ground. So, I pick myself back up and take myself outside to sit on the marble steps for air... except I never made the marble steps. Well, I did, kind of. I made them by fainting onto them, knocking myself out and smashing my

glasses. I woke up in the bed right next to Dan. The doctor visited me and couldn’t understand where I’d come from.. once again I’d turned so green he didn’t even recognise me! It was only when I managed to choke out that I was with Dan he realised I was the same girl who’d been helping him in the operation not ten minutes before! Lord knows what people must have thought of us that night. I looked a right mess and was still slightly dizzy and concussed, Dan was high as a kite and we both stood outside of McDonald’s, swaying on our own as we downed a large pack of fries and nuggets purely for some energy.

 I’ve had a few hospital experiences since then, fortunately nothing on the same scale as these. The food poisoning and hospital experience that I had last year was so bad that I almost got used to having needles and cannula jabbed into me. I definitely faired better that time...maybe it’ll hold me better stead for next time.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading my adventures with needles. There’s a small tattoo that I would really like to get, yet I still just cannot get over the needle fear, one day... maybe. Until then, no more injections please!

Mental Health, Social Anxiety and Me.

Now before I go any further, I do very much recognise that this blog post is going to be pretty self indulgent. However, in able to talk about mental health issues you have to be able to put your own personal experiences first.  This is quite a tough subject for me; especially as even writing now, it's putting me completely on edge as I type. Then I think that if this blog article goes the way I want it to go, and I get even one person to identify with what I'm writing about, it will all be worth it.

I suffer with severe anxiety; most of it based on being having to be sociable. Over the past few years due to various personal situations it managed to get worse, however, on the other hand it made me begin to recognise where and what I am doing and be able to help myself. I have to give my boyfriend Dan a lot of credit with this. He's made me realise that it's ok to be me, worts and all. This in itself has made me more confident and relaxed in what I am doing, and more comfortable as to when I don't want to do something rather than going along with it for others. I don't know if it's because I'm that little bit older and now able to reflect, or trauma makes you view life a little differently. I'm now in a place where I feel like I can be me without thinking that I'm completely nuts.

To anyone who normally meets me, they think I'm confident, bubbly and that I talk a lot. However beneath that appearance and all the chat, I try and overcompensate with words. I'm normally a bundle of nerves, overthinking every action and word, ensuring I say the right thing or upset someone. I absolutely hate silence; it eats away at my brain and makes me feel even more awkward than when I'm spouting words. I'm well aware that there are many similar to me on the overthinking stakes, it's a common trait.

I became aware of this issue a few years ago, when I was treated by a practitioner who was trying to sort my back problems out. A particular session stuck in my mind when she gave me a sports massage to relax the muscles. At the end of it she commented to me that I physically was incapable of relaxing. Even if my body wanted to, my mind wouldn't let me. Her words were "You are a nervous person; you are stuck in fight or flight mode at all times, and if you cannot manage to let go, your body will suffer for it". My body has been suffering for it for a very long time.

Different actions throughout my life defined my personality traits. I've always been a high achiever, I've always been a worrier. Going through things like CFS and bullying came hand in hand and over the years, it made me socially awkward. I missed so much schooling that I only had a handful of friends who knew me. I've made some good relationship decisions, and some bad ones. I've made the same decisions with work and friends too. All of them effect my mind and make me think a little too much.

My parents and brother desperately used to try and help me. We have an amazing bond as a family unit even now. My Mum pointed out to me recently that even as a little girl I had a soft and nervous disposition. If I was ever told off I'd instantly feel sick and be upset. I look back then and remember that most nights I would sit in bed and think about my whole day. What I could have done or said different to stop certain things happening; how I wish I'd been more witty with a fast comeback. (Saying that, I still do it now!)

From a young age I developed Dermatillomania; I used to obsessively pick at the back of my arms at spots and lumps that were never there, fortunately as I got older mostly I grew out of it. I always remember my parents trying to convince me to stop, and that if I didn't I'd be scarred for life. Even now, I do find that when I'm nervous or stressed I swiftly find myself scratching my head, my chin or forehead as an automatic reaction. I don't even know I'm doing it. I always need to be fiddling when my mind is active. I can't even sit and watch a film without thinking of loads of other bits and bobs at once. Ironically, we brought a fidget spinner back from the UK, Dan won it at the penny arcades; I've found myself using it a lot, it works!

There's different personalities in this world, some (like Dan) feed off other's energies in social situations, he can become the life and soul of the party and bounce around the room. I don't necessarily envy him; it makes me smile because I it's something I love to see. It's what makes him shine.  I do wish that sometimes it was me, but I wouldn't even know where to begin. We're quite polar opposites in ways. My mental energy drains very swiftly and find that as much as I love to be sociable, I find that after a while I'm desperately wanting my home space away from people. I feel panicked and worn out. Don't get me wrong... I absolutely love to be around people. It's a very hard thing to describe and put a label on. It's like having an inner battery that hits a critical level where you need to go home and recharge. I'm well aware that the job and nature of what I do I have to be that sociable bubbly person, so if you see me on low moment, please forgive me.. normal service will resume.

One of my main triggers are large groups of girls together. Laugh as you may, but being bullied at an all girls school for years still sometimes resurfaces.  I was sat next to a giant hen party a while back, the noise of them all gossiping and laughing gave me a full on panic attack. I realised that sometimes these things in your mind won't ever go away.  It's been a good seventeen years since I was in school, maybe with time and practice you can deal with them better, but some things stick. I prefer to spend my time with a small group at a time, or individually. I find that way I can concentrate on the conversation and enjoy. It's hard to battle with the mental strain of feeling like you're an outsider no matter what you do. Not that I need to be inside a group.. It's just the way my brain works.

Another in being put on the spot, and put down in conversation. I absolutely hate it. It makes me panic that I'm going to get whatever the conversation is incorrect. An old boss, whom now I wish I'd reported, used to do this to me on a regular basis. On top of this, if she didn't like my answer she'd call me stupid and a moron. Obviously she had her own issues. I've had a few people in my life with similar disposition as this lady. Some more damaging than others. The amount of things I can now look back on and wish had happened differently.. but I guess you shouldn't really regret your past, it's what can shape your future.

Whilst in my own space I now meditate, I practise yoga and try and release some of that nervous energy. I try and use the negativity in my past to try and push the barrier down in future conversations and panic moments. I find the meditation helps with stopping my brain for a moment. My heart rate slows and I can gain some form of peace. I have to try and stop overthinking if I haven't heard from someone, or try and push myself forward a little more so that I don't shy away from the things I fear. I wouldn't say I'm ok, but I'm alright. I cope. Each day I try and help myself a little more.

Hopefully this post helps others. I'm not entirely sure it helps me but I guess in the long run it will. It's not an easy one to talk about and I couldn't easily fall into more detail about triggers and experiences, but then my bad habit of talking a lot becomes writing a lot instead..

Jen

Fear of flying?

Now I'm never one to admit when I have a fear of something. Unless it's small spaces it's rare when something bothers me. 

Now, writing this post 36,000ft in the air it's sprung to my mind how much older I am, and therefore how much more aware I am that life passing me by. If the plane dropped out of the sky right now, that would, be it. The end, c'est fini.

Not to curse the rest of my flight but it feels kind of odd to look out to the jet engine, which I happen to over viewing from my surprisingly comfortable Easyjet seat and think that that particular engine is keeping tonnes upon tonnes of heavy metal and not to mention the human, living cargo alive as we motor on across the continent. Caught myself staring out at that engine for a good five minutes in wonderment of what the human race has managed to create over the years.

I love flying as a general rule. As a child I always used to sit next to my father and he'd hold my hand at take off just encase we didn't lift off the ground (Great bout of confidence in survival there, Dad.) Dad has no fear of flying at all. He enjoys the same rush as I do from life, always happy to jump onto the next adventure. Whereas my Mother always had this feeling of danger throughout. Don't get me wrong, she's a happy enough flyer but always quite cautious. She'll always spend the  week before flying a little uptight, however she's got the same fear of small spaces that I have. As much as I love flying I can totally see her point of view, I hate the thought of spending 5+ hours cooped up in a tiny seat with someone sitting next to me who happens to have a knack for elbowing my kidneys ever ten minutes.

I always find it funny, when I leave to go on holiday, Mum will ask me to send her a text upon landing to let her know I'm safe. The generic response from me being that if I hadn't landed safely, I'm quite sure she'd hear about it before I did!

I have found that, recently my survival instinct has kicked in. When I mean survival instinct, I mean the fact my brain kicks into thinking that this flight could be the last one I ever take. Morbid, eh? Such happy thoughts!  I have no idea where this has stemmed from, but it's a constant when I've flown in the past few years. I wish I knew why and as I said before, I can only put it down to having this awareness of age and life. Maybe the thought that things can be so sudden. The world is so very big, especially as you look down from this height. Makes you realise just how insignificant you really are,

On the brighter side, I am on my way for a bit more of the good side of living... Scuba heaven. Even ticking off the SS Thistlegorm from my bucket list. If that's not something to live for, I don't know what is :)

Signing off. 

J L Edwards.

Seat 8A

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