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Insomniaville -- All the Stuff that Keeps Me Up At Night

11/17 -- Injection Rant.

Me and a needle, in aahhhhty black and whiteThe shots.

They're getting old. Really old.

Not that they were ever fun, mind you. It's not like you'd find me sitting in the recliner glancing anxiously at my watch and saying "Oh, boy! Quarter of ten! It's almost time to do The Shot! Yay!"

But since the last detailed entry I wrote about the whole process, I thought I'd at least come to a certain peace with them. The shots weren't fun, but they weren't too awful.

Bill was detailing the whole process to his parents and said that he was surprised by how routine the whole thing was becoming. His father replied, "I don't see how something like that can ever be routine."

And Bill's dad is right. I'm hating the whole process more and more every week. The entire ritual takes up a good half-hour of every evening, not so obnoxious on a weekend but really annoying on weeknights when it cuts into my precious decompression time. I'll be dozing off in the recliner under a blanket and musing that I should just call it a night. But then I'll remember that I can't. Because The Shot looms.

I have to round up our two orange tabbies, the two cats most likely to hop up on the table and start batting needles and vials around while I'm preparing the injection, and lure them into the bedroom with a can of Pounce so I can shut them in there. Then I have to clean off the table. Then I've got to collect all the components of the injection -- the vials of medicine and sterile water, the needles, a milk carton to toss the used syringes in, alcohol wipes, cotton ball, and ice pack for after I'm done. Then I have to wash my hands with Hibiclens.

And after all that, it's finally time to do The Shot. Because I've detailed that entire time-consuming process once before, I'll just add this: The more tired I am and the more I wish I could just go the hell to bed already, the more the Copaxone refuses to un-clump after I've squirted the sterile water into its vial. Bill and I take turns swirling the vial, rolling it between our palms, and squinting into the bottle to see if it's all dissolved. Which could be easier. The tiny vial is made with dark brown glass to protect the medication. Fair enough, but it's also nearly covered with a product information label. You've got a tiny gap between the label and the bottom of the vial to see if everything's mixed and bubble-free. Could the pharmaceutical company make it any harder to tell when the medicine's all dissolved? I'm thinking not.

And the shots are causing more discomfort than they were at the beginning. I don't know if the seven injection sites on my body are getting tenderized after a few weeks of use or what the hell's going on, but suddenly the injection sites don't seem to be recovering nearly as fast as they did at first. They lump up and they bruise and they itch.

And more than once I've made the mistake of reading various message forums featuring Copaxone patients. Looks like I can look forward to having permanent dents in my arms, legs, back and belly after a few months of this. Dents. Oh joy.

I guess it's just as well that nobody's ever going to be begging me to bare all for "Playboy" anyhow.

The next entry.

Previously, in Insomniaville...

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November 2000