Shooting up, passing out

I have a feel of needles. Not the sewing kind, but the kind you stick into your arm or other areas of the body. It's not the blood or the pain, as one would expect.

It's the invasion.

I don't like the idea of something like that being forced into my arm against it's will. The initial pressure of the needle into the skin just before it gives way is enough to make me hurl my cookies.

Imagine my unadulterated horror then when the nurse from the fertility clinic announced that I would be giving myself an injection twice during each procedure cycle.

Two shots. Into my stomach or thigh. (Luck me, I got a choice!) Two times a month. For up to three months.

Once she picked me up off the floor, she assured me I would be fine. Okay, maybe I didn't faint, but I did turn a whiter shade of pale and felt my stomach making loops.

I explained that I really wasn't comfortable with giving myself a needle, but that The Guy had offered to shoot me if it came to that, so I might let him do it. However, since he wasn't with me that day, the nurse announced she was going to teach me and I could teach him. I would just give myself a shot of saline while I was with her so I could practice.

Thankfully, my heart remained in my chest and my breakfast in my stomach.

The more the nurse talked about the needles, the drug mixture, the alcohol swabs, the sharps container, etc., the more panicked I became. I breathed deeply and didn't let it show. I was determined to be brave. I heard her voice like Charlie Brown's teacher and hoped some of it would stick when it came time.

Finally, I injected myself with the saline and squealed in terror as I could feel the liquid spread. I ripped the needle out only half emptied and announced I had gotten the hang of it. I packed up all the supplies and high tailed it out of the office.

I managed to make my way to the elevator before the panic overwhelmed me. I took deep breaths and ordered myself to be calm. Instead, I burst into tears and hyperventilated. The elevator opened as I tried to compose myself.

Taking a step into the hallway, I saw a sign pointing to the right hand side doorway. It was directing me to the mental health ward.

After a quick conversation with my sister, I managed to settle and drive home. I kept the fear of the injection in the back of my mind until the time came to do it.

When the doctor's office called and told me the time I would need to shoot myself by, I knew I couldn't do it. I took my needles, swabs, drugs, and sharps container with me to church where a family friend (and peds nurse) took pity on me and gave me the shot.

The fact that some of my clients do this daily is not lost on me. At least, when they do it, they get to have a high afterwards. I have to wait 9 months for mine.