Leipzig. Anxious, improving, journalling — and this is the thing I journal about most, so I may as well bring it here.
The injection takes about fifteen seconds and does not hurt. I have done it forty-one times. I am not frightened of the needle and I have never once had a problem with the act itself.
The ninety minutes before it are the problem. It starts in the afternoon, on a Sunday, as a sort of tightness behind my ribs. By six o’clock I am checking the clock. By seven I have found four reasons to do something else first — a load of washing, a phone call to my mother, tidying a drawer that did not need tidying. I have talked myself into eight o’clock, then half past, and by the time I actually do it I have spent the best part of an evening in a low hum of dread about fifteen seconds of nothing.
Then afterwards I feel completely fine and slightly foolish, and I promise myself that next week I will do it at six, and next week the tightness starts at four.
What I have noticed is that the anticipation is not really about the injection. It is about the whole thing being real once a week, on a schedule, with no way to not think about it. The needle is just where all of that has to go.
Has anybody actually shortened the ninety minutes? Not by being braver. I am not short of courage on a Sunday, I am short of a way through an hour and a half.
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