“T-eeee! Come downstairs! We’re going to head out and get some Dairy Queen!”

My nine-year-old ears perked, and I yanked my ample, olive-tinted, Mediterranean nose out of my shiny new paperback: Blubber, by Judy Blume.

Dairy Queen! Today? Wow, it wasn’t even my birthday!

I scrambled downstairs, pulling my thigh-length, neon pink sweatshirt down, and adjusting my pants’ black stirrups over the arches of my nearly adult-sized feet. Yeah, in fourth grade, I was already sporting numerous oversized body parts. Spoiler alert: I’d be among the first to wear a bra soon, much to the amusement – and fascination – of my penis-owning classmates.

Dairy Queen, Dairy Queen, Dairy Queen! I loved ice cream. What would I get? A classic hot fudge sundae, adorned with a syrupy maraschino cherry? Or would I default to my new favorite, a brown-wax-dipped cone exploding with creamy vanilla soft-serve?

I climbed into Mom’s pinot-red, battleship-length Mercury Cougar, and chattered happily with my 30-something mother. She was dressed simply but stylishly, like always, and boasted a Norwegian complexion complemented by a pale blonde pixie cut.

We looked absolutely nothing alike.

We traveled down Vinland Street, towards the city of Duluth proper, of which our home was on the far south boundary. It was lined with tall oaks; dotted with middle-sized, middle-class two stories.

We chugged along, pausing briefly at a stoplight. There, the Cougar turned the wrong way on Grand Ave.

Oh no.

I knew I’d been had. That sneaky Mom!

“No, no, no!” I sobbed. “We’re getting a shot! I knew it! Noooooo!”

“Oh stop,” said my mother, who wasn’t known for her patience. “We’ll get ice cream after if you don’t make too much of a scene.”

“I’ll try,” I sniffed.

I don’t clearly remember, but I’m sure I failed. And Mom, true to her word, did not indulge me.

I hated doctors.

There wasn’t a specific traumatic event I can recall that unleashed this phobia. But for all of my childhood and well into a adulthood, anything involving a man – and it was, even then, still largely a man – in a white coat would cause a great unraveling.

And while vaccines were the worst in my developing brain, my healthcare hysterics didn’t stop there. No. The ice-metal stethoscope would cause a shrieky squirm. When the fleshy part of my upper arm got squashed in yellow rubber for a blood draw, I’d bawl.

And, later, in my teen years, Pap smears?! Yeah, let’s not even talk about those.

Shudder.

I didn’t even like to play doctor, spending my grade school leisure time instead penning elaborate political skits – Dukakis Forever! – and forcing my friends to perform them on the black asphalt playground.

Maybe it was old age that finally got me over this. More likely, though, it was giving birth.

Yeah. After that first blood draw – 8. Tubes. Full! – you have to decide you’re either going to be OK with the pokes, the prods, and the complete lack of dignity of so. many. people. peering up there, or that you’re going to allow it to torture you for nine to ten months.

I chose the former, and discovered over time, and a recent surgery, that my own interest in healthcare was growing.

That’s why, after 20 years and a successful executive career in marketing and communications, I’m seeking to be the one on the other side of the plunger.

I’m going to nursing school.

This was written as an exercise for a memoir-writing class I’m taking through our local university’s continuing education. Many others in my class are sharing meaningful, humorous, and impactful periods of their lives.

It might not be very “memoir-y,” but for me, that meaningful, humorous, impactful period is right. about. now.