One of my favorite dresses in second grade was a light
cotton with blue flowers. It had a full skirt that would twirl around nicely
without going up too high if I were in a twirly mood, and full sleeves loosely
gathered at the elbow with elastic. Like most of my dresses, this one buttoned
down the back. My mother had made it, and although she was an accomplished
seamstress, she hadn’t gotten the neck quite right, so it gaped open slightly.
And somehow, on a bright, windy April day, on the playground during lunch
recess, a bee managed to fly down my dress and get caught in my sleeve.
I was generally a calm child who prided herself on being
controlled. If that sounds as if I were exceptionally mature, I wasn’t---just
self conscious and somewhat aloof. During recess I had been eyeing the bees.
They tended to cluster near the swings where dandelion, clover, and other
flowering weeds covered the ground. I was very careful not to step on or
otherwise antagonize them, but I also didn’t totally avoid them, preferring to
tell myself that they didn’t really scare me. I thought if I was afraid of them
they would smell my fear and come after me in swarms.
So I dallied at the swings, waiting my turn, demurely
twirling once in a while to feel the dance of cotton around my legs, when
suddenly I felt a buzzing against my undershirt. I froze mid-twirl and stood
very still, trying to will the bee not to exist. But the buzzing continued as
the poor creature, who must by now have discovered it had not found its way
into a giant exotic flower, began to buzz even louder as it made its way from
my bodice to my sleeve.
After ten long seconds, I threw all caution and self-control
to the wind and began to scream and cry and flail at myself, trying
simultaneously to both kill the bee and set it free. Help came running in the
form of minions of other second graders who began to scream with me when they
discovered I had been attacked by a bee. “Bees!” they screamed. “Bees!” I could
hardly point out that it was only the one bee since it felt like a dozen. Our
shrill chorus seemed to go on forever, but it could only have been a minute
before I caught sight of my teacher, Mrs. Barnes, lumbering toward me.
Mrs. Barnes, with her graying red curls that bounced off her
glasses frames when she moved quickly, as she was doing now, whose feet filled
her solid shoes and overflowed, just a little at the ankle, whose hands had
wrinkles and big, brown spots on them like freckles, only different, was as
divine to me now as the brightest angel I could imagine. I was engulfed as she
pressed me to her ample bosom. Then, shielding me with her large body, she
nimbly unbuttoned my dress, whipped it over my head, shook it out, and had it
back on me and rebuttoned before I had time to stop crying.
My screams stopped immediately; I was so shocked at this
public undressing. But no one else seemed to have noticed, so I clung to Mrs.
Barnes, weeping quietly in what I hoped was a ladylike fashion while she
escorted me to the nurse, Mrs. West. They examined me and found that I had
indeed been stung on the upper arm. Amazingly, I hadn’t felt anything, but the
terror of the bee itself had been so great that a mere bee sting was probably
anti-climactic. I quieted in Mrs. West’s office, and Mrs. Barnes hurried off to
class as the bell rang. Sipping water, I pressed a cold wash cloth to my face
while Mrs. West put alcohol on the bee sting.
And then Mrs. West said, “Would you like a Band-Aid?” They
were the words I didn’t even know I had been waiting for, but when she said
them I had to fight the urge to grab the Band-Aid box and spill its contents as
I searched for the perfect shape and size. “Yes, please.” I said, using my most
polite and grown-up voice. And even though I had not felt the sting and the
minute bleeding had stopped and the little itch that was left after the stinger
had been removed was a fading memory, I breathed a sigh of relief as the
adhesive bandage was placed on my arm. Even though I knew that when I removed
it later it would painfully tear the tiny hairs of my arm, I felt healed.
I lost my fear of bees after several years, although I never
was one to seek them out. I thought I had also lost my love for Band-Aids until
a few months ago when I found myself sitting in a small room with a different
nurse, waiting for a vaccination. A needle was involved, and that needle
engendered some of the same feelings the bee had 50 years before. I didn’t cry
or cause a scene, even though I wanted to, but I fretted a little as the nurse
rubbed alcohol on my arm just before piercing my flesh.
Surprisingly, I barely felt the shot; in fact I complimented
the nurse afterward on her gentle technique. She smiled, pleased at this, and
dabbed my arm with a cotton ball. ÒI think you’re bleeding a bit,” she said.
“Would you like a Band-Aid?”
“A Band-Aid?” I hesitated. Maybe I was too old for
Band-Aids. But as I peered over my glasses I could see a tiny spot of blood
that seemed to reappear as fast as the nurse could wipe it away. “Yes, please,”
I said. “I’d like a Band-Aid.”
As I felt the adhesive stick to my skin, the trauma
subsided. Something was holding me together; I had been patched up. Suddenly I
understood that the healing power of a Band-Aid is not limited to children. It
can be a concrete manifestation of the
knowledge that we will not break apart, that whatever happened is now over,
that help has arrived. It is a badge that tells the world you are a survivor.
I left my Band-Aid on all that night, even after I had
discovered that what I had thought was a bleeding needle hole was merely a
freckle. My arm hurt, a side effect of this particular vaccine, and I couldn’t
bear to expose my wound. Every time I moved, my arm would throb and I would
wake for a few minutes. But the Band-Aid was still there and I would drop back
off to sleep knowing I was still holding together.
Comfort comes in many forms: a homemade cookie, warm from
the oven, the purr of a cat as he settles into your lap for some serious
petting, the beauty of a bouquet of white roses in your favorite vase. And
sometimes it’s as simple as a small adhesive strip with a soft spot in the
middle.
