I was nervous about it the night before. Just picturing the cold, sterile room, the mean, old, smelly nurse whose cigarette break was immediately before. She walked into the room carrying a shiny needle dripping with poison, just salivating at the thought of stabbing it into innocent flesh.
I cried when it happened. I couldn't help myself. It was everything I have always found overbearing about my own mother - all of her fussing over me, worrying about my health and happiness and overall well-being - it was that full-circle moment that makes you so aware of all of the things you dismissed as a child, the things you should have appreciated or been more sensitive about.
I cried. During her vaccination. Which lasted .5 seconds and resulted in a very cute purple band-aid that I'm sure she'd love, if she were generally more aware of her surroundings and could identify her own hands. I cried.
On the way home, I tried to explain to her that life will be difficult, it will include needles and stubborn freckles you'll try to erase with hydrogen peroxide and people who aren't wise enough to see your beauty. I told her that she'll have to be strong.
As I rambled on in the backseat of the car, the one the husband couldn't wait to park and release the hormone-infested contents of, I realized she was asleep. Happily asleep with her purple band-aid and the whole experience behind her.
Maybe she was pretending to sleep. To get me to stop talking. And crying. And checking her band-aid for any escaping blood.
God help her.
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