I tried to keep my composure, and instead of saying, “David, doctors give shots. In a DOCTOR’S office. With a sterile environment and years of medical practice. You have a theatre degree and work in commercial real estate. You aren’t qualified to give me shots in our kitchen next to the COFFEE POT,” what I really said was, “Yeah. I’m sure you’re right, dear.”
Winnie met us in the hall and told us to head over to Lake Como to meet Sally. She also told us we could play with the model of a diseased uterus sitting on the table there, which was awesome. David did a short puppet show before Sally came in with the bag of injectable show-and-tell things. That type of behavior, doing short puppet shows using a model of a diseased uterus, is mainly why I married him.
After the puppet show, I sat thinking about the boxes of needles on my kitchen counter.
Eeeeerin! We're gonna geeeet you!
Sally interrupted my little daydream and whipped out a needle and some little glass jars. She showed us how to mix the liquid and the powder, suck it up into the syringe, put the right needle on the top, and then PUNCTURE my stomach. She used a fake little tummy to demonstrate. When she was all finished, I asked her if she could do the entire demonstration again. She laughed, and I told her I wasn’t kidding. She left the room and came back with an informational DVD that she said “no one ever actually watches.” I said thank you.
At this point I’m sure a lot of people would consider my behavior “control freakish”. But let me tell you something: if your husband is being instructed to stab you in the stomach with 1cc of liquid that is worth more than all of your crystal wine glasses combined (which you can’t drink out of because you can’t have sugar), YOU’LL WANT TO MAKE SURE HE GETS IT RIGHT THE FIRST TIME, TOO!
We got a calendar at the front desk highlighting the three days David would give me the injections. Each one should happen between 6pm and 9pm. There was only one problem: We had tickets to the Florida game on the 2nd night. I went back and asked the nurse what we should do!
“Oh, just go to the bathroom at the stadium and do it.”
Now, getting an injection in my kitchen was a terrible idea. It’s where we cut raw meat and spill sticky sauces on the counter. But I could live with it.
Getting an injection in the bathroom at a Gator game was unconscionable. It’s where 20-year-old college students spend the second quarter puking their brains out on the floor because they couldn’t make it to the toilet. Not to mention there was poo.
So I was left with a choice: Convince my husband to leave the Gator game early, or face certain death in a stadium bathroom. When I weighed out the risk/reward factors of both, I decided to adopt.
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