Two words:
Foley. Catheter.
Getting bitten by a lion.
Had it happen this summer, never wanna experience it again. And that’s the last time I believe a tour guide when he says, “Go ahead and pet it. It’s tame.”
I was close enough to a lightning strike to the hear the fizz-crackle of the streamers before the BOOM. I never ever ever want to be that close to lightning again. Ever.
Having a post-surgery chest tube removed. I was out cold when they put it in, but wide awake two days later when they pulled it out.
I’ve been cut, stabbed, and had a few broken bones, but having that garden hose-sized tube yanked out of my chest was a brilliant flash of the worst pain I’ve ever experienced. I cried like a baby for five minutes; the pain was over quickly but the shock…man, oh man.
Makes my hair stand on end just thinking about it 
I had one of those too, brother. My wang stills recoils in terror at the memory.
Pr-Service Training for Peace Corps.
I went from living in my own apartment in Chicago to being a guest in a house with a family in a village (pop. 700) in Bulgaria. Couldn’t speak the language, couldn’t communicate, didn’t understand the customs, immediately started missing foods I could no longer get… It was probably the loneliest and most isolating periods of my life. There were four other Americans in my village, and it didn’t seem to matter. I spent the whole time wanting to hide in my room and never come out.
I’m not alone, either. I think every Peace Corps Volunteer remembers PST as a complete nightmare. It’s just total culture shock. It is a pretty effective learning technique, but it’s not a whole hell of a lot of fun.
I’ve done a very good job of burying the experience. Thinking about it and writing it down would require me to remember details I’ve buried. Yes I’ve been there and leave it at that.
I’ve had a sunburned eyeball before (yeah, just the one eyeball). It’s as bad as described.
I’ve had quite a few experiences I wouldn’t want to relive, but the first was when I was 8 or so and got poison ivy. Now, I’m pretty allergic to the stuff, and this first time I got it on both of my legs, and I mean my entire legs, from the buttocks down (none on my tiny little junk, thank God). It was more than itchy, it was like my legs were on fire. I remember the doctor gave my grandmother some liquid that was supposed to “dry it up,” but I’m pretty sure it made it itch worse, and calamine lotion did absolutely nothing. My grandmother spent about three days doing nothing but restraining me from scratching the oozing sores.
C’mon, this was an 8 year old kid, and even though “poison ivy” sounds pretty benign, this was serious stuff. I think some sedatives or something stronger than calamine lotion was called for. It was a week (or however long it lasted) of hell.
Marrying a psycho-victim.
Spending a night sick (food poisoning) on the floor, throwing up 4-6 times at a crack, repeat every 30 minutes all night long.
Being an armed guard on the overnight shift in “family” restaurants and having to break up fights and kick large groups of drunk, angry people. ALONE. That job doesn’t pay enough, doesn’t provide insurance, doesn’t provide support.
Seconded. PST is hands down the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and I’ve been living a pretty full life.
Malaria is second worst. I woke up from a nap in such great pain that I wondered if I had somehow fallen off the bed and gotten a full-body bruise. I had to arrange my pillows so that I was kind of suspended over space, with the bare minimum of my body touching anything. Then the headache started. After an hour of slipping in and out of consciousness in the 100+ degree heat, something clicked. I suddenly had a full-body realization that I was sick with something that was going to kill me. It was the strangest feeling. Just this sudden clear understanding that what I had was fatal.
I stumbled out of the house and collapsed on a rock, where I managed to flag down a motorcycle to take me to the hospital. I was wandering the grounds of the hospital in a malarial haze, mumbling in my broken French, and trying to refuse the doctors who were trying to give me blood transfusions (!) and surgery (!).
I successfully avoided these medical procedures, took some tests and some pills and made it back home. The Fete de Mouton festivities were well underway, meaning that every family in my neighborhood ritually slaughtered a goat, and of course wanted me to watch and eat. I have these vivid feverish images of blood pouring on sand in the burning heat seared into my brains. As the evening wore on, my neighbors brought me great piles of jiggly purple goat meat. I was half-crazed with anemia, and spent all night in front of the stove, feverishly shoving fresh curried goat into my mouth.
I spent a week battling it out- first the chills, then the fever. Pain everywhere. Then, mysteriously, I turned blue. I never figured out why. The Cameroonians said it was probably the medicine, which apparently frequently turned them red. I had my doubts.
One word. Shingles.
I had one of those. Piece of cake.
Compared to being hit on my bicycle, breaking the femur and tearing away part of my left hamstring and sciatic nerve, helicopter ride, coma and other fun things.
Once per lifetime, please.
And you voluntarily did it a second time! I swear, I’d consider doing a second tour if it didn’t mean another round of PST. Maybe in twenty years when those memories have faded a bit. I remember when we got invited to extend to China and I thought about it for a minute before I realized I’d have to do PST again. No way, no how.
So, what exactly is this PST ? Do they like airdrop you into a remote village and you have to assimilate? Is it like the travel channel meets survivor man?
My stomach perforated. Ripped open. It was the worst thing I can even imagine. I was begging god to take me home. I had a parrot at the time - she was given away while I was in the hospital - the person who took her asked why I had taught her to say: Please God, help me.
I do not use that phrase. Well, obviously, I did that night and at the top of my lungs, but she wouldn’t have heard it any other time.
If there is something than hurts worse than that did, I don’t ever want to feel it.
Two words: Kidney stones.
Unfortunately, they’re a hobby of mine. I have one every year or two, just to keep life interesting.
Please stop.
Also, being crushed and left for dead by a hit-and-run driver with no respect for traffic laws or motorcycles. Broken ribs, punctured lung, torn liver, and more.
Plus my thumb won’t bend right anymore.
No thank you.
Well, this is one of those threads that make me realize how very lucky I’ve been. The worst pain I’ve felt is dropping a bottle of water on my toe, for God’s sake.
I’ve never found calamine lotion to be effective on anything, even a mosquito bite. I once had poison ivy so bad my eyes swelled shut. The calamine lotion I was bathed in didn’t do a damn thing, and I was too afraid to sleep because I thought I’d wake up blind.
Oh, I also had shingles last year. Given that I was 32, that was completely unexpected. I never, ever want that to happen again. It was so painful that the vicodin they gave me was only effective for about an hour before the agony would return. I’d lay there in bed, waiting for my next dose for just that hour of relief.
I’ve also had my eyes burned by the reflection of the sun on snow as I was climbing an active volcano. The skin across my nose and cheeks peeled off in one big piece and I had scabs in my nostrils for weeks afterward. The view was totally worth it, though.
Getting shot didn’t hurt at first, but I don’t ever want to do it again.
Having ileus at age 9 (complete digestive system shutdown)
Spontaneous pneumothorax at 31 - woke up with a partially collapsed lung
Disc kicked out of my back
Home foreclosed even though I was no longer in arrears