HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Citizen, 1996-03-13, Page 5Arthur Black
THE CITIZEN, WEDNESDAY, MARCH 13, 1996 PAGE 5.
A case of
needlephobia
Reader's Digest says acupuncture is the
medical wave of the future.
You know acupuncture — that ancient
oriental art of turning patients into poor
approximations of porcupines by festooning
them with needles. Apostles of acupuncture
claim judicious puncturings of the carcass
can cure every affliction from arthritis to
ingrown toenails.
They may be right. All I know is that I'll
never know. I'm scared of needles. Not
, mortally terrified. I've been drilled for polio,
malaria, yellow fever and a host of other
arcane maladies.
I have even had my blood checked. This
involves a medico screwing a stainless steel
straw into a vein and hoovering out enough
red stuff to sate a starving vampire. I didn't
swoon or throw up or soil my underdrawers.
But I never liked it much.
I blame my needlephobia on public
school, where, once a year the tiny public
address system rattled to life in each
classroom to inform the wretches within that
next Wednesday or a week from Tuesday we
would all be "getting our shots". This
involved being herded into long desolate
lines, left sleeve rolled up past the biceps
and shuffling forward like so many veal
calves on their way to the abattoir.
Eventually — too soon — you would reach a
Labour relations
I once found myself teaching a course at
Western which looked at the history of
labour relations with special attention being
placed on collective bargaining. I soon
discovered that a majority of people found it
difficult to be even-handed in their approach
to the labour union movement. Either they
thought it was one of the greatest things ever
invented or else it was considered to be
something of an anachronism; its
dismantlement could not come soon enough.
Most of my class came from middle
management and you can imagine what
point of view they had. After a few weeks
into the course I decided that it might be
appropriate to bring in a couple of speakers
from the union side. I got a dedicated and
knowledgeable official from OPSEU as well
as Buzz Hargrove from CAW to present
their side of the argument. From where I
stood it went over well; each side respected
the other and the second meeting even
attracted a TV camera crew and reporter.
There were, however, no converts. The
hardest thing my students found was to give
balanced answers on my final exam since I
expected them to be able. to present both
points of view.
It goes without saying that the labour
union movement has always been
contentious, right from its roots in the early
part of the 19th century. Our unions have
their origin in Great Britain, but they came
to us by way of the United States and not
desk where a stony-faced nurse checked off
your name, took a desultory swipe at your
exposed upper arm with an alcohol-soaked
cotton swab and jerked her head toward the
executioner (sorry, doctor).
Said doctor (did they really leer, or is that
my imagination?) grabbed your wrist to
preclude the possibility of a moving target
and with his other hand plunged his
gleaming spike into that too tender flesh
somewhere between the shoulder and the
elbow, at the same time drawling "Next".
I probably would have felt better about
getting my shots if it had been permissible to
scream, wail, hang on to the curtains or
throw myself on my knees groveling and
groaning for mercy. I couldn't. I was a boy.
Gritting your teeth was okay, if you didn't do
it obviously. Apart from that you were
expected to behave like John Wayne on the
sands of Iwo Jima.
That was the best thing I knew about
graduating from public school: no more
needles. Not on a regular basis, anyway.
And always providing I avoided getting
bitten by a rabid dog, in which case I could
look forward to seven weeks worth of
needles in the belly. Needles that I am told
are as painful as you might expect needles in
the belly to be.
That's why I never pat a stray dog unless
I'm wearing a pair of hockey gloves.
I wasn't worried about much life could
throw at me, as long as there wasn't a
hypodermic at the end of it. Flying in a bush
plane, getting mugged, driving in Montreal —
even filling out my income tax form — I
directly from the British Isles.
The very nature of the Industrial
Revolution which started as a result of the
breakdown of the feudal system in the
1800s, made it imperative that something be
done to counter what Karl Marx called "the
exploitation of the working class."
Marx, by the way, was in the centre of the
movement although it is to the credit of
laborites that they chose to work within the
political system and not overthrow it as
Marx urged.
There was labour unrest all over Europe in
the 19th century and more than one uprising
was put down by the authorities. France was
a focal point on the continent but it was not
to be their century.
In spite of the relative moderation shown
by the British, confrontation has been a key
ingredient of the entire movement and this
was transported in its entirety across the
Atlantic. This has proven to be a bane even
to this day; we rely far more than we should
on such confrontation and we pay the
penalty.
There is an interesting aspect on the
political side. While the British movement
was strong enough to form its own political
party which is still in existence, the
Americans never felt the urge to do so. This
has resulted in the unions in that country
having to look for support from one or the
other of the two great political parties.
The Canadians, true to their penchant for
compromise, finally got around to forming a
semi-labour party, the CCF, in the 1930s,
but even then saw it mixed with the farm
community and radical intellectuals, with its
leaders more often than not members of the
could handle anything, as along as it didn't
involve inoculation.
And I was correct — right up until I made
the insane decision to accompany my wife
into the delivery room to witness the birth of
my daughter.
Never mind the psychological battering a
delivery room dad must endure. That's a
whole other horror story. I just want to talk
about the episiotomy needle.
Have you ever seen an episiotomy needle?
You may have. You probably wouldn't
recognize it as a needle unless somebody
told you. It looks like something a Watusi
warrior might use to bring down a charging
water buffalo. If matadors used an
episiotomy needle, bullfights would be over
in nanoseconds. Hamlet would have won his
swordfight if he could have wrapped his fist
around an episiotomy needle.
Episiotomy needles are, in short, not short.
They're huge. And they are administered to
an area of the body that makes a man cross
his legs and moan piteously just to think
about.
And that's why I never whine about man's
miserable place in this world. Sure, we go
bald and women don't. And we die earlier,
and make fools of ourselves more often than
women do.
But all that amounts to no more than a
pinprick. The Big Guy upstairs dealt all us
little guys a huge ace in the hole. Guys never
have to worry about being at the receiving
end of an episiotomy needle.
Because guys — praise be — can't get
pregnant.
latter group.
We could do well to look at some of the
European countries where confrontation
does not play such a dominant role. The
Germans have relied for the most part on
what is called "Mitbestimmung" where
labour and management sit down to work
out an agreement for the entire industry.
There are strikes, to be sure, but they are the
exception rather than the rule.
The Swiss abhor confrontation; they prefer
to work by consensus with a predictable
result. Strikes are all but unknown.
When I listen to the slogans being shouted
on the picket line, I feel that we have stolen
a leaf from the Arabs. The latter are
predisposed toward using colourful and
flowery language to state their aims and in
no time at all they start to believe them to
the 'nth' degree.
Having been on the picket line twice I can
honestly say that I shuddered at some of the
things I read on signs carried by my co-
workers. The word "fair" loses almost any
meaning it might have had and the same
people you are ranting and raving about as
bearing an amazing likeness to the south end
of a horse going north are the same people
you will be supporting in the not too distant
future when another question comes up
where you will find yourselves on the same
side.
1996 could well be a year of one strike
after another. We do, at the time of writing,
have OPSEU out for the first time in their
history as representatives of the civil service,
and others could follow. It is at times such as
this that we need all the cool heads we can
find.
The
Short
of ►c
By Bonnie Gropp
Chased indoors
I really don't like what winter turns me
into. Though I have tried to take the cold, the
snow and the other many discomforts of the
mean season in stride, though I made a pact
with myself in October that I would not hide,
but confront Jack Frost, thereby beating him
by joining him, I just couldn't do it.
I spent another idle winter tucked indoors,
coccooning. I took refuge from the blasts,
under cover of my cozy sanctuary, neither
desiring to leave those toasty warm environs,
nor doing so unless unavoidable. As
sunshine is to Dracula, so winter is to me.
Venturing out is not just undesirable to me,
it is unpalattable.
And as a result I am now beginning to feel
once again the conditions of EMS (Early
March Syndrome) — lethargy,
cantankerousness and claustrophobia. I want
out. I want to throw on some lightweight
attire and move around out of doors. I want
to savour the warmth of the sun, bask in a
gentle breeze and be soothed by the sweet
music of a robin.
I miss my walks, I miss baseball and I
miss green. You see, when it's not cold, I
actually like being outside, which is why by
the end of winter, I am definitely moody
blue.
Besides my children there are only two
other things in existence which keep me sane
during the long-cold season — books and
movies. (I've about given up on music; with
five other people in the house I seldom get to
listen to my choices) Last week, while the
winds whipped up a froth of white and the
mercury dipped way down low, I snuggled
onto my sofa and spent a summer in
picturesque Cornwall. I travelled back to
World War H and was heartened after being
necessarily reminded that things are pretty
good right here, right now.
Saturday was movie day — a useless
venture in the eyes of my warrior, who
prefers instead the vast wastelands of
snowmobile trails and TV. For four hours,
while he was out enjoying the coupling of
man and machine, facing the frosty bluster
of winter, I was experiencing The Big Chill
in my living room.
But enough, is enough. While I have
experienced escapism in its most
entertaining form for the past few months, I
am chomping at the bit to move beyond my
four walls. While Forget Paris, Forest
Gump and Sleepless in Seattle brought me
romance and vistas that I have never visited,
while Rosamund Pilcher, Dean Koontz and
John Grisham made winter a little more
satisfying, I'm ready to get back on familiar
terrain.
Spring, if not around the corner, is
definitely, within view. Winter arrived early
and in a fair world, should be required to
depart soon. I hope so. I can barely wait to
stretch my legs on grassy turf, to try to
aquaint myself with the astonishing
unknowns I am still finding in my flower
beds.
Movies for a time, will be filed away for
rainy days or until I can get to them next
winter. Though I will still be reading, it will
instead be while comfortably sprawled in a
chaise lounge, sipping lemonade under the
shade of our opulent red maple.
At least, that's where I'll be until the
mosquitoes chase me back inside.
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