In 8th grade I had my tonsils taken out. No big deal right?
Well about a week later I was staying the night at a friend's house. I woke up that morning and felt kinda sick and dizzy. When I looked down at my pillow, there was a spot of blood about 6-8 inches in diameter. At this point I was freaked. I went downstairs and my friend's mom saw how pale I was and walked me home. As soon as I arrived at my house, I saw down by the toilet and proceeded to throw up all the blood that had went down into my stomach. After I threw up all the blood, I stood up and instantly passed out due to all the blood I had lost. When I woke up, I was on a stretcher in an ambulance with big fucking 3 inch long needles in my arm because the paramedics thought I might need a blood transfusion. So on the way to the hospital I was pretty much stable and all that good stuff. I stayed the night in the hospital and was home the next day. Turns out that the reason I lost all the blood was because the stitches in my throat came loose.
Thats my near death experience, and from that day, I developed a passionate hate for needles.
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