Attuned

In college Julie was in a science lab chatting with some people, when suddenly the conversation turned to spinal surgery. Moments later, after Julie regained consciousness, she learned she had fainted and hit the back of her head on a doorknob. The person next to her had then interrupted her trajectory, cradling her head before it could bounce off the concrete floor.

Fast-forward ten years and you see why we skipped the parenting class where epidurals were on the syllabus. Julie handled the epidural itself remarkably well, but I did nearly punch the anesthesiologist because he wouldn't stop talking about it.

Shots aren't fun for anybody (except weirdos), but Julie is more resistant than many. Today she was scheduled for a tetanus shot, arguably the worst kind of routine shot. They stick the needle in, you barely feel it, and then it's like they're injecting a thundercloud into your arm. For the next couple hours, it feels like a lightning storm.

Julie sat in the exam room with Lyla nearby in the car seat. "Which arm do you normally hold the baby with?" the nurse asked her.

"I guess my left," Julie said, damning herself to a shot in her otherwise dominant right arm.

"Take a deep breath," the nurse said, poised with the needle.

And Julie realized she didn't care. She remembered child birth and concluded that this puny needle could not possibly compare. She relaxed; the needle entered her arm, and in that instant, from the other side of the room, Lyla screamed bloody murder.