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When we discovered that I was pregnant again, I rushed to pick up the heparin and syringes, only to return home completely unprepared for what to do next. My incredible husband, the one with whom I've been fighting for months over every little thing, has found his calling in giving me shots. Jim takes some strange enjoyment from injecting me with a subcutaneous needle. I am grateful that it is not intramuscular.
Everything we know about it, we learned from the Internet. One site in particular was nicely detailed and simple; even in person, my doctor's nurse wasn't able to instruct me as well. Upon returning home with my supplies, I rushed to my computer, found the bookmarked pages on self-injection and heparin side effects, and re-read them for the tenth time. Meanwhile, Jim was loading up a needle, asking for me to join him in the bathroom. Never one to read instruction manuals, he was ready to wing it. I convinced him finally that this was no piece of furniture that we were constructing, this was my body, and I needed to read this whether he felt the need or not.
While he was very patient, Jim continued to remind me throughout the first week that a time would come when he may not be available, and since we are ultra-vigilantly maintaining my injections at just the right time, my learning self-injection was crucial. He helped me try it the first time: I asked him to load the syringe while I swabbed my thigh with alcohol. Handing me the filled syringe, he prompted me with words of encouragement, like a coach cheering on his team. I held the syringe gingerly, like a pencil aimed at my thigh, and froze. My hand, suspended about five inches above my thigh, simply would not descend, no matter what I told it to do. I could not will myself to injure my own body.
Days passed, and Jim continued being the lone shooter in the household, even when it meant he had to rise earlier than usual on his day off. In addition to managing my injections, he was cooking us dinner almost daily after coming home, usually late, from work. I felt for him, but I could not bring myself to shoot my own thigh.
The morning that things changed was a Sunday, Jim's day off. As usual, my sister and I were up early, drinking coffee and gabbing. I watched the hands on the clock as time passed, closer and closer to shot-time. Should I wake Jim? He's been working so hard lately, I am hesitant. Finally, the time comes -- I ask my sister, who easily admits to being a bigger weenie than me, if she'd like to learn how to inject someone with a syringe. She laughingly declines, and I realize that this is the time...
I head for the bathroom slowly, hoping that Jim will arise at any minute. I hear him snoring down the hall. Just unwrapping the syringe, I feel the nerves tingling in my hands and wrists. My mind plays tricks with me, replaying scenes that could occur if I -- oops! -- take off the cap too carelessly and jab the end of my finger, or -- oops! -- step on the syringe after dropping it to the floor. I shake my head as if to free the silly thoughts that plague me. The syringe is so tiny, smaller in diameter than a pencil, it feels awkward in my hand. I play at different ways to hold it between my fingers, deciding finally that a dart-hold feels the best.
Now, inverting the heparin vial, I start to insert the needle when my mind plays those games again. What if I miss the vial top and instead plunge the needle into my knuckle? I set the vial down on the counter again, and breathe deep. "Okay," I told myself, "you can do this." I listened anxiously for Jim, to no avail. Starting again, I move very, very slowly until the needle is safely inserted into the vial, and I pull the plunger. Once the needle is filled, I hold my breath and flick, flick the tiny air bubbles out, all without pricking a finger.
That wasn't so hard, was it? It feels as if a half hour has passed, and my heart is pounding. The thought of possibly losing another child because of my fear of needles is disconcerting and propels me forward. Suddenly, I move more quickly. Standing, rather than sitting as I do for Jim's shots, I squeeze a fatty part of my thigh, swab it with alcohol, pick up the loaded syringe again, and WHAM!
In one of those instances one has while driving and suddenly can't recall where the last few seconds went or how you arrived where you are, I awoke to see a syringe's needle plunged deep into the skin of my thigh. Time suspended momentarily as my jaw dropped open, a gasp escaped, and my wide eyes stared at the sight -- my own hand was holding the syringe. Quickly coming to my senses, I pushed the plunger down and withdrew the needle, which made a tiny pricking sound as it came out. I had rushed the exit and, as a result, would have a greater bruise, but the rest of the execution was flawless. Success!
Breathing a huge sigh of relief, I wondered if I could continue clearing this comical but exhausting series of hurdles on a daily basis. For the time being anyway, I feel like a grown-up again...
© Tracy Morris
