spinofflive
Photo: Getty Images, additional design by Archi Banal
Photo: Getty Images, additional design by Archi Banal

SocietyJanuary 17, 2022

Scared of needles? This will help

Photo: Getty Images, additional design by Archi Banal
Photo: Getty Images, additional design by Archi Banal

From today, children aged five to 11 can get their Covid-19 vaccine. Emily Writes’ son Eddie, who has multiple injections a day to control his type one diabetes, shares some advice for kids worried about it.

This post was first published on the author’s newsletter, Emily Writes Weekly.

There’s been a bit of talk lately about needle-phobia and the lack of support and resources for people afraid of needles. I thought I’d ask the one kid I know who has to have needles all the time for advice. That kid is: my kid!

There are no photos of needles in this story! Book your vaccination/booster here.

Eddie has had thousands of needles since he was diagnosed with type one diabetes two years ago. He was terrified of needles, but the thing is – when you have to have needles or you’ll die, you just have them.

I remember having to hold Eddie down to give him needles. It was so so awful. So I have a lot of empathy for those who are afraid. Truly, nobody likes needles – so here are some tips straight from my son, in his own words:

The needles used for Eddie’s insulin injections (Photo: Supplied)

I was real scared when I first got diabetes and had to have all these needles. But I had to not be scared because I had to have the needles or else I would die.

So when you get a vaccination you should think about it like that. Like if you don’t get it, you could get sick or you could die or you could get someone else real sick or they could die. Then it doesn’t feel like a choice.

If it’s not a choice and just something you have to do, that helps you think different about it.

Here are my other tips:

  • Don’t think about it too much before you get your injection. Think about something else.
  • It’s not going to kill you, just hurt for a second – not even that.
  • Listen to your favourite song that makes you feel happy or calm.
  • Do something that calms you down, like my brother does counting when he’s upset, so you just count.
  • If you have a phone or if you don’t you can borrow your mum’s phone and watch a funny video.
  • Tell the doctor or nurse that you’re scared and they will be extra nice to you.
  • Relax your whole body – sometimes you want to squeeze your hands. And if I squeeze my body when I have to get my insulin it hurts way more. You have to breathe out when the needle goes in.
  • Be comfortable. I like to lie down instead of stand up when I get insulin. But sometimes I have to stand up and I just lean on my mum or dad. So you could get a cuddle at the same time if you want.
  • Get a lollypop after or some Lego if your parents will get you some.
  • Think about what you can do after your injection. After I have insulin I can have my ice cream or go outside and play. After you get your injection you can go do fun things.
  • Think it’s not actually the end of the world. It’s just an injection. But if you don’t have the vaccine and you get sick that could be the end of the world.
  • Also, at least you only have to have three injections and they’re over a whole year probably but some of us have to have three just in one morning so you should also be a bit braver. But it’s OK if you don’t feel brave. There are lots of ways to feel brave anyway. It’s OK to cry because I sometimes cry when I have to get insulin even though I have had thousands, probably millions, of injections.
  • Take your teddy bear with you and cuddle it while you get your injection. Or if you don’t have a teddy bear just cuddle your mum or your dad.

That’s probably all of my tips. But if you know someone with type one diabetes you could ask them because they have lots of injections so they will have tips too. Not just mine. And it’s OK to feel scared, just don’t let being scared make you not get an injection. Because sometimes we just have to have injections. It’s just called life. Sometimes babies need injections. And they just cry and can’t do anything. Anyway that’s all.

But if you want you can call me* – just ask my mum for her number and I will talk to you while you get your injection.

Just put “From Eddie” now Mum.

From Eddie.

*

I hope that helped! Good luck with your boosters and getting your kiddies in for vaccinations! Thank you for getting vaccinated. Arohanui, from the Writes whānau.

*Bless him, but no lol.

Have questions about the vaccine or want to book over the phone? Talk to the Covid Vaccination Healthline 8am-8pm, seven days a week. Translation services are available in over 40 languages. Call 0800 28 29 26.

Keep going!
an x ray of a human skull with a red cloud over the frontal bone
Image: Getty/Peter Dazely

SocietyJanuary 16, 2022

A bit more than a sore head

an x ray of a human skull with a red cloud over the frontal bone
Image: Getty/Peter Dazely

Fatigue, depression, pain, puking Mark Graham explains how life is still impacted by his concussion, over a year later.

First published on February 28, 2021

We are here thanks to you. The Spinoff’s journalism is funded by its members – click here to learn more about how you can support us from as little as $1.

A friend of mine wrote a wonderful piece on his life being “shattered by two punches” and his attempts to piece it back together again.

It made me cry.

Timothy Giles described his day-to-day struggles with concentration, anger management and fatigue, and acknowledged the pressures his recovery had put on his family. It was a remarkably good and honest insight into the impacts of concussion, and it gave me an inkling of what he had been going through in the years since his first concussion, back when we worked together 15 years ago. It resonated with me so much because I, too, am working to recover from a concussion.

As with Timothy, what I’ve found with my own concussion is that the struggles go well beyond the family interactions – though they’re certainly there – and beyond the dealings with the world, intermittent as they are. The ripples of that smack of my head into hard bitumen at speed carried on into my “self” – that person I saw in my mind’s eye. Now I was no longer that person who could do anything, achieve what I chose to pursue.

I was reduced to uselessness, fatigue, and depression. I slept through most of the first lockdown. 2020 was a terrible year for many, but I missed it almost completely.

Over a year ago, I was sideswiped by a ute while riding my Vespa. His lane stopped, mine kept going and he jumped into my lane where my Vespa happened to already be, carrying me and my 12-year-old daughter off to her gymnastics class.

I distinctly remember hitting the ground, firstly with my chest, which really hurt a lot, and then with my head. “That’s not good,” I thought to myself.

And it wasn’t.

The poor guy who hit me was mortified, probably at least as much at listening to my 20-minute profanity-laden tirade at him before the ambulance rescued me (and him), as at the fact he had nearly killed me and my daughter.

In many ways we were lucky. My daughter took a knock to the knee and, apart from being pretty freaked out by the accident and the sight of me lying in the middle of the road being told not to move, she was all right.

I was in pain but awake. And my toes moved. The swearing was also probably a good sign. I don’t recall being knocked out, but there are gaps in my memory, so I must have been.

After a series of tests in hospital I was diagnosed with three fractured ribs, concussion and whiplash.

My head, inside my helmet, had conducted its own short arc at speed as my chest hit the ground first, followed by my head whipping around behind it to bounce once… twice… onto the tarmac at high speed while managing to stay connected to my body via my neck.

Vertebrae are not designed for this. Fortunately, crash helmets and heads are, but they mitigate, rather than prevent, damage.

a side profile x ray of a human skull and neck, a red cloud over the cervical vertebrae
Human vertebrae are not designed for high-speed situations (Image: Getty Images/Peter Dazely)

Assorted scans and X-rays showed there were no brain bleeds and apart from a massive headache, the odd bout of losing consciousness and puking, an extremely sore neck and an inability to cough, sneeze, laugh or generally move without the feeling of a knife being driven into my side, I was OK, I thought.

I wasn’t really that keen on sitting up in bed the next morning, but the staff looking after me insisted – I cannot remember why. But I do remember what happened next, or at least some of it.

I remember going dizzy, then it going black, and then I awoke from one of the most intensely pleasurable dreams I have ever had, to a view of the floor and assorted feet I was not prepared for. Then I puked again. Then I felt the blood from my forehead as they helped me back into bed. No one had caught me on my way down and so it was my forehead that broke my fall to the floor.

I hadn’t really considered the detrimental effect of a 1.5 metre pitch off the bed to faceplant on the concrete floor, but the ACC medical assessor cheerfully pointed it out for me. So there I was: a double concussion within 24 hours. And here I am, 15 months in and still messed up.

The ribs healed, as they do. It becomes less painful to fart and laugh, and eventually you even feel comfortable sneezing. The whiplash continues to cause pain and discomfort, even after a year, as do the effects of the concussion.

And while I share Timothy’s symptoms of irritability, concentration and fatigue (lots of sleeping!), the mental well-being effects of the brain injury continue to play a major role in my life.

Because you’re tired all the time, combined with feeling like you’re constantly jet-lagged or hungover (depending on the severity of the headache), doing anything is a major effort. Add in difficulty concentrating on things, a general brain fog and, for many sufferers, aversion to noise and light (not me, thank goodness – music is a solace), it’s hard to actually do anything productive.

Physical activity is fine – good, actually – and certainly beneficial for improving a general feeling of wellness. It doesn’t require thinking, too, and that’s a good thing. Walking the dog, hitting the gym, painting the house – improving physical condition after so much time spent doing nothing has been a rewarding path back to some semblance of energy and positivity.

But coming out of the difficulties of engaging in any kind of cognitive activity are the additional impacts and negative circles on both motivation and self-worth.

The less you feel you can do anything, the less you do. The less you do, the less you want to do. The less you do, the less you feel you can accomplish. The less you accomplish, the worse you feel. The worse you feel, the less you want to do anything.

man sitting in waiting room with head in hands
The less you do, the less you feel you can accomplish (Photo: Getty Images)

When you’re left with time on your hands you also have time to ponder the failures of your life. If you have any inclination to anxiety and depression, this is going to make it worse, because you’re useless (figuratively and literally), something a recalcitrant 15-year-old delights in reminding me during periodic confrontations when I try to do some parenting.

For the first six months of my concussion recovery, I routinely forgot my wife’s request to put the washing on the line, much to her frustration (though her tolerance for my failings is remarkable). The kitchen would remain a mess and morning routines getting kids to school became a one-person responsibility (not me, since I was sleeping).

Trying to do any work is a major effort and everything takes longer. I started writing this a year ago.

Anxiety levels skyrocket, too, along with fears for my future. Since I shut down my business because I was unable to work (with associated guilt for unpaid suppliers and contractors), I was left with no purpose to fulfil. Nearing my 60s means my chances of finding a well-paid job are slim; unanswered emails or calls with friends are signs of rejection; unable to participate means being out of the loop; all of this only adds to feelings of worthlessness.

And while I’m grateful for ACC, there has been certainly been a degree of incompetence in their support.

Christmas, Covid-19 and internal restructuring meant I was largely left to my own devices to find treatments for the whiplash and concussion from January to July last year. I lost count at four case managers over the past year or so, and I was told by a supervisor at ACC that there was likely another four I wasn’t aware of because there was no interaction with them. I had no concussion clinic treatment from December 2019 to July 2020 after the funding for my case fell through cracks in the system.

Psychological counselling that had been requested in 2019 by my GP finally got approved in August 2020 after I sent an email expressing my dismay. It’s a good thing my suicidal thoughts remained just thoughts.

I also understand I’m not alone in experiencing these issues.

At the same time that all this is going on, there’s an awareness that others are much worse off than me. I have a friend who’s had to have back surgery while looking after her partner who was recently diagnosed with cancer, of parents dealing with their child’s cancer treatment, medical diagnoses that are permanent and debilitating, and I cannot help but feel that my own emotional toil is overblown and exaggerated – which, of course, adds to the feelings of worthlessness. How can I justify feeling sorry for myself when there are so many dealing with so much more?

Learning to accept the reality of my state of being and the validity of my sense of being has been a challenge, but I’m certainly grateful for the support of my wife and my friends, and those professionals who I’ve worked with in recent months. I know others who have or are suffering with concussion, and I know how tough it is for them because it’s such a hidden impairment.

At my last session, the psychologist I finally got to have counselling with told me that despite everything, I am still capable and have a lot more to offer. This message of value and hope was the greatest gift someone in my situation could have received. It still remains my go-to whenever obstacles seem insurmountable. Make sure you share it with anyone you know dealing with their own struggles.

But wait there's more!