A healthy young guy came in to clinic to have a few small skin lesions treated. He works in agriculture and as expected was about a foot taller than me and weighed probably twice as much as a non-pregnant me, too. He was pleasant, and we chatted about the weather as I prepared the few things I needed.
Lidocaine. Betadine. Gloves. Blade. Silver nitrate. Antibiotic ointment. Bandaid.
After I cleaned his skin I grabbed the syringe (and attached "tiny" needle) with the numbing lidocaine, and I proceeded to nonchalantly poke him and then watch the skin rise and bulge as the medication infiltrated the tissue below. "Stick and a burn." He got a little more quiet, and as I looked up into his already pale and freckled face I noticed he was growing more and more pale.
Ooops. I didn't even think to ask this 6-foot-something 200-something pound guy if he wanted to lay down or got queezy with needles. Thankfully, I didn't have to catch him this time. We successfully got him up to the table and laying down for the rest of the procedure (which took about 30 seconds), and he did fine.
Later he told me he didn't like needles. Shocker. He thought he'd do okay this time because he hasn't had a problem since his seventh grade shots. I smiled and was just grateful to not be picking him up off the clinic floor.
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