In my ongoing quest to cure my needle phobia I force myself to watch the whole process.
I sit opposite wifey as she lays out the syringe, needles and vials. I watch as she unmasks the needle and inserts it into the vial. I stare at the top of the needle. I do not flinch. This is a major step forward. For ages the needle point was a major trigger for me. Something about its sharpness was enough to press the panic button and start the sweats.
I have cured my phobia. I am elated.
I carry on watching the process. The sucking up of the mixture by the syringe. Easy. The slow, previously sinister, tapping of the syringe to remove the air bubbles. A doddle. The removal of the needle and its replacement of the next needle ready for injection into the skin. A cinch, She hands me the old needle. I hold it closely observing its sharpness and laughing at my old silliness. What was all the fuss about Glenn?
I watch her take the needle. Move up her skirt, rub her skin with the alcohol swab, and without hesitation plunge the needle into her skin. I feel dizzy. The sweats break out. I feel sick. I stagger to the sofa and lie down urging myself not to feint. Wifey asks me if i am Ok. She comes over and strokes my hair.
I am a wimp. I am the king of wimps. I am pathetic.
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