The first two days
called for a 20 unit shot of Lupron in the morning and another 20
unit shot of it 12 hours later. I took out my notes, my chilled
bottle of Lupron, the alcohol wipes and syringe and set them out on
my desk in front of me like a good little student. Then I called my
boyfriend.
“You have to stay
on the line with me while I do this in case I die.”
I squeezed a fold
of fat from my belly, and per my instructions, the good boyfriend
counted, “One, two, THREE!”
I didn't think. I
just jabbed.
“Oh my God.” I
stared at the syringe sticking out of my flesh, kind of bobbing
loosely on its own. “I did it.”
I pulled the
depressor backwards as I had been taught, to check for blood. “We don't want
you to inject into a vein.” Nurse J warned me.
Seeing the syringe
stayed clear after pulling the trigger back, I depressed the juice
right on in. It was all surprisingly easy. Mind over terror.
I wanted D to stay on the line with me for a few minutes to make sure
I didn't have a deadly allergic or strange spastic reaction. But he
was jammed with prep for an extremely important meeting. “How
long?” he asked, the stress and panic crystal clear in his voice.
Recognizing I felt
fine, and processing that no one has ever died from injecting a few
units of hormones, I realized I was being silly and overly needy.
“OK, but call me
back in 15 minutes to make sure I'm not dead.”
A half hour later
as I was getting into the shower, feeling totally fine, I remembered
he had not called. I was ever so slightly disappointed. This was the
kind of thing that reminds me I'm alone in this process. When you're
married or doing this with another person, you can order said person
to hold your hand or at least hand you the vial and alcohol wipes.
But I bucked up. I am alone in this, and I can handle it. He
helped me through the hard part, and I was fine when we hung up. He
knows I'm a big girl. If I had started to have a strange reaction, he
knows I would have called him. And I know he would have jumped into
action to help me.
Truth was, instead
of feeling weird, I felt great. I felt energized. I usually start
dragging ass for a few hours in the afternoon, but I blew right
through that please-let-me-have-a-nap time revving to go. The thought
occurred to me that I might just want to keep taking his drug the
rest of my life if I feel this good. I understand completely now why
the Sylvester Stallones of the world take Human Growth Hormone. When
our hormones decrease, we age. Not so the other way around. So
pumping up our juice levels, we don't just feel better, we literally
feel younger.
Two days later, I
add a 600 unit shot of Gonal-F. That's a huge dose. An entire box of
this stuff, which comes with several syringes for multiple doses,
contains only a 450 unit vial. Nurse J had explained, however, that
the well-known secret is that the vial actually holds 600 units. (The
bonus 150 units seems fair considering each vial costs hundreds of
dollars.)
Word on the
Chattersphere expressed shock when women mentioned injecting 450
units a day, and those were divided into twice a day shots. I was
instructed to inject the whole 600 units in one dose. I was surprised
my dose was so high, and I was a little concerned about how it might
effect me.
Dr. P did not
discuss my treatment plan with me. Nurse J simply told me what he had
prescribed. I assumed this dosage was based on my age and my hormone
levels, but it was only a guess. And now that I was on my own,
preparing to inject myself with high dosages of hormones, I couldn't
help but feel a little left in the dark about the whys and
what fors of my treatment plan. I like to know what the
thinking is behind what's being done to me, but in my desperate
state, I had to simply trust my doctor. Not an easy thing for me to
do.
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