I really, really, really, really HATE Lovenox shots, which help thin my blood, a precaution against further clots and stroke. After this week’s omninous TIA and my hospital stay, the doctors are taking no more chances with me. I have to take these awful painful shots.
I shriek like a terrified piglet while my hubby preps my skin with rubbing alcohol, the frightening feeling of his rubber gloves on my skin, and the very presence of that needle sending me into shrieks and sobs. “Tell me when you’re ready,” he says, knowing that it will take several minutes minimum for me to gain composure.
He will move the needle closer to my skin, for injection, and I will scream again and start crying. (Did I tell you how much I HATE needles? And the awful burning that is particular to Lovenox shots?) He’ll pull back, his right hand waving the needle in the air, and his left hand pinching that piece of skin and fat on my stomach. “Tell me when you’re ready,” he says again.
I get frantic, knowing that I HAVE to take this shot, filled with paralyzing, all-consuming fear. But I know I have to take the shot. Finally, I give up. “Just do it.” At which point, he has a few seconds to inject me and move quickly away. I feel the needle, and the burn of the drug entering my skin in the subcutaneous injection.
I HATE Lovenox shots. Hate them. This is my routine these days–a shot in the morning, a shot at night. They burrrrn. Dark purple bruises appear in the wake of lovenox shots.