When I was a kid, I formed an iron-clad psychological association between “going to the doctor” and “getting a shot”. It seemed (although who really knows how true it was) that every time I was hauled off to the pediatric clinic, I was doomed to drop my little shorts and get stuck in the rump with a needle.
So now, here I am at the ripe old age of 52, faced with giving myself a shot – Neupogen, an immune booster – for the next 6 days. First attempt was last night – I ended up just staring at the syringe hovering over my “pinched inch”, utterly unable to make the final plunge. It wasn’t so much that I was thinking “this is going to hurt, I don’t want to do it” as it was my body refusing to comply with the command my brain was sending to my hand. Jeanette, who has many years of experience giving herself shots, finally intervened on my behalf and got it done. It actually didn’t sting as much as when the nurses slide the IV shunt into a vein, but the anticipation was too much to overcome. This from a guy who has dug splinters out of his fingers with a utility knife.
Aside from that little adventure, this round is still going easier on me than the first round did. The yucky chemo taste/smell weirdness is back, but not quite as strongly, and I’m just eating right through it anyway. I have to say, the staff administering the study drug is fantastic, especially the lead nurse, Martha. It’s pretty cool having all these smart, caring folks looking after me.