Picture this…a small room, sterile gloves in wait, antiseptic ready, surgical syringe disinfecting in a sterile glass, a bowl of ice cubes nearby (yes, I said ice cubes), cotton, toilet paper, and Pabst Blue Ribbon bar napkins in readiness should there be blood (besides pain, my greatest fear).
Yes, I’m the patient seated in a chair, knees weak, heart pounding, throat dry as the cotton balls I see before me.“Anesthesiologist” hovers over me (my mom), “surgeon” (her friend) ready to begin. Enough suspense?
The “operating room,” the women’s bathroom of the American Legion Club and I’m having my ears pierced.
After weeks of indecision, I have reluctantly given my consent. I’m assured that mine are the 46th set of ear lobes to be pierced this way in this very room and none (as yet) have developed gangrene. I am still scared.
I give the nod and with my head held firmly against my Mommy’s side (I resort back to childhood at times like these), the “piercer” is ready to proceed. Ear lobes swabbed with alcohol, ice cubes encased in a plastic sterile glove held against my left ear, supposedly preventing me from feeling any pain.
I am asked how it feels and I answer “cold.” “Numb enough to begin?” “Heavens, no, it needs to be much colder!” I say as I eye the 3-inch long surgical needle soaking in alcohol. Wish I could faint at will; then it would be over when I came around.
The ice cubes are almost entirely water by now, so I tell this nice lady who is going to hurt me to get it over with. She says, “Take a deep breath,” and I feel the needle go through my ear lobe. Didn’t hurt too much but then she leaves it impaled in my flesh! Something is dripping on my shoulder and I yell, “Mother, am I bleeding?” Calmly she tells me it is just alcohol—no blood. “But there’s a needle in my ear, it must be blood!
The “surgeon” rolls her eyes skyward and I figure I’d better shut up or she’ll walk out and leave this needle in my ear for life. I’d be too chicken to pull it out.
Out comes the needle, more ice applied, in goes the earring—almost. For some reason, it won’t come out the back. Fat ear lobes, she says. What does she want from me? I have to put my ear lobes on a diet to get these ding-busted earrings in? I ask her if I have time to take a fluid pill. She doesn’t answer. She’s too busy grunting and prodding the earring into a mysteriously closed-up needle hole. She swears this has never happened before. Ha! A likely story! And I still have another ear to go!
I’m suddenly nauseous.The numbness is wearing off and I feel pain. Who wouldn’t with a sharp object halfway through an obese ear lobe? More ice applied, push, poke, a crunch, and thank heavens, it’s through!
I’m shaking now from sheer relief.The other ear is a snap and finally I am standing (under my own power!) before the mirror admiring my newly pierced, gold-studded earlobes (the left definitely fatter than the right.)
I did it! Barring gangrene, I think the patient will pull through. Ah, the miracle of modern-day medicine—rest-room do-it-yourself style! Yup, unconventional, that’s me!
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