Needle Weenie

It's that time again: time to give myself a Humira injection. Actually I should clarify: it's time for Carl to give me a Humira injection.

Since I developed arthritis at age 20, I have sampled the gamut of treatments: malaria drugs that made my palms itch, cancer drugs that did nothing, antibiotic treatments that I didn't give enough of a chance and some really terrific pain meds. I've tried herbs, "alternative medicine," faith healers, visualization...you name it, I've tried it. I even took a trip to Lourdes, France hoping to find healing in the waters. You may think I'm nuts, but you try chasing three kids with a whacked-out hip--you become willing to try just about anything.

Hee hee. I just read my last sentence and I see myself madly screaming while flailing some prosthetic hip at my kids. I need to work on my grammar.

So, now I've reached the realm of last resorts, what I call the "big guns." Some fantastic disease-modifying drugs exist now that, if they don't totally destroy my immune system and give me cancer, will slow or stop the arthritis and give me a better quality of life.

The problem Other than the cancer bit)? The big guns require needles and I am a huge needle weenie. I bow to all you diabetics who shoot up daily. I only have to inject myself once every other week and I get weak just thinking about it. Carl and I have succeeded once at giving me an injection...after three margaritas and a wonderful little anti-anxiety pill. I told that to my rheumatologist and he gave me a funny look...so I told him I was only joking.

The second time we prepared for the injection (prepared means I again drank several margaritas and blew an entire evening by being freaked out), my sister and her husband were visiting. The injection itself is pretty simple. The medicine comes prepackaged in an injection pen with red caps labeled "1" or "2" on each end. Carl pulls off the caps, pinches a blob of fat on the top of my thigh (real hard to find these days--ha!), puts the "1" against the blob, then presses the "2." The pen does the rest as long as I hold still. Well, Carl never has been one to read instructions. As I clinched my eyes closed and held my breath, Carl placed the pen on the blob while Ashley and Ed (my sister and her husband) watched. I heard the "click" of the pen and thought, "Wow, that's not as bad as I remember it." At the same time I heard Carl and Ashley both yell something indistinct. I opened my eyes to discover that Carl had the pen upside down and had injected his thumb, then sprayed Ashley with the medicine that remained after he jerked said thumb away. Frankly, I was relieved.

So, this time we'll be reading the instructions. Maybe I'll even keep it down to one margarita.
...Nah.

Disclaimer: yes, I know all about the effects of drinking on the liver, especially since these wonderful medications are pretty hard on the liver.