Not-so-fun fact: About 40,000 people in the United States are bitten by cats each year.
When he was younger, there was nothing my cat, Mr. Meow, enjoyed more than wrestling with me. He’d seek me out with this look in his eyes that said, “You ready to play, Mom? Because I am!”
The second I got up, he’d dash to the pop-up cube (“hut”) that he liked to hide in. I’d throw one of his little toy balls on top, and he’d punch the roof to send it flying off. When I’d reach down to pick it up to throw it again, he’d lunge out and grab onto my arm, biting and kicking me. Or “wrestling,” as I called it.
“How can you let him do that?” my husband would often ask, appalled.
It looked much more vicious than it felt. It didn’t hurt. Not usually. Mr. Meow didn’t have front claws, only back ones. He mostly used the pads of his paws, not his claws, when he kicked. And he mostly just mouthed me and didn’t sink his teeth in when he bit.
Of course, he did get carried away sometimes. He’d get so swept up in the frenzy of playing, he’d forget to be gentle.
“Owie Meowie!” I’d say to let him know when he bit or scratched too hard or drew blood. He’d respond by taking it down a notch.
It was actually our wrestling matches that gave me the courage to face my biggest fear: needles.
“Fear” is perhaps too tame of a word for how I viewed needles. I had an extreme case of needle phobia. It came with lots of drama — tears, profuse sweating, nausea, diarrhea and fainting. It was usually in that order and rapid-fire, one symptom right after the other.
It was humiliating and embarrassing. I was a grown woman, for goodness sake. I should have had better control of myself!
For most of my life, I’d been able to avoid needles as much as possible. Then I was diagnosed with cancer. It quickly became clear that routine injections and blood draws were inevitable.
Most nurses were sympathetic and tried to do everything possible to assuage my needle-phobia symptoms. The nurses at my oncologist’s office quickly realized that lying me down helped with the nausea, diarrhea and fainting. I still cried and sweated, but it beat them having to worry about me falling over and breaking open my head.
For a couple of months, chemo left me too sick to play with Mr. Meow, which he seemed to sense. He’d never been a particularly snuggly cat, but during my chemo days he’d perch on my chest for hours.
One of the first times I felt better enough to wrestle with him, he bit too hard. I realized his teeth hurt more than most of the needles I had to deal with.
“How come I can handle you biting me, Mr. Meow? I don’t experience all the chaos I do when I get shots.”
His answer? He grabbed me tighter and bit harder. It was so hard that he drew blood — and quite a lot of it.
“Yowie Meowie!” I hollered, quickly rushing to tend to my wound.
As I cleaned myself up, I thought about how much his teeth puncturing my skin still hurt afterwards. It was rare for shots to hurt me like that.
And blood draws? As Melissa, the phlebotomist at my oncologist’s office, said before she’d stick me, “Get ready for the bee sting in three, two, one…”
They usually weren’t much more than a bee sting, either. Just a quick little prick.
Yet, I didn’t much like bees either. They conjured up images of suffering, too.
But my cat? He conjured up happy feelings of fun times.
I decided the next time I had my blood drawn, I was going to tell myself “Kitty Bites” and see if it helped.
A couple of days later, I got the chance to put my theory to the test when I went in for my three-week checkup. The familiar anxious feelings were fluttering in my stomach. Tears welled in my eyes.
Melissa took me to a room and lay me down. As she got ready to put in the needle, I closed my eyes and repeated silently over and over, “Kitty bites. Kitty bites. Kitty bites.”
“All done,” she said. “Wow, I’m impressed. No tears today. What gives?”
“Wait, what? You’re done?” I asked, incredulous. I hadn’t felt a thing! I didn’t even feel sick afterward.
I couldn’t wait to get home and tell Mr. Meow. Of course, he couldn’t understand me. All he wanted to do was wrestle, and I happily obliged.
It wasn’t long before I was able to sit in a chair and have my blood drawn — sans tears, nausea, diarrhea, or fainting.
Needles to this day are still not my favorite thing. However, as long as I repeat “Kitty bites” and think of Mr. Meow when being poked, I can handle it.
~Courtney Lynn Mroch
