As some of you who read my blog regularly know, I was
diagnosed with early onset male menopause a couple of months ago. And yes, that is a legitimate thing. And no, I have not started growing boobs and
getting my period. People this might
come as a shock to you but I don’t have a uterus or a vagina. My body just started producing less testosterone
than it should and consequently I have to get hormone replacement injections.
It’s like getting a vitamin B shot. Only it’s not vitamin B. It is hormones. I have to get a shot once a week and I use to
have a nurse at my pharmacy who gave it to me.
Then she resigned and I was left with a conundrum: Do I find another nurse or do I give the injections
to myself. As things turned out, in my cornucopia
of options, there was a third option – my husband.
Look, I probably am one of the few people who are not afraid
of needles or injections. I guess the
fact that I have had so many injections in my life probably desensitized me to
it. I have even given myself a few
injections in my day. Both times were
out of sheer desperation and both times involved my back going into spasm while
I was working away from home. Both times
also involved dodgy medical facilities with questionable hygiene which was the
reason I opted to rather inject myself.
When I learned that my regular nurse resigned at the pharmacy
I normally go to, I did not think of it as a huge train smash. I was in no mood to test drive the new
student nurse who was there in the interim.
So I asked my pharmacist if I can’t just administer the injections
myself. To which she rather nervously
answered “Well, I suppose you can but I
don’t recommend it”. In my mind this
meant she was saying “Sure, knock
yourself out. Just don’t hit a vein, ok.”
So I bought some syringes, needles and alcohol swabs. When I got home I tested to see if I could
inject myself in my bum but soon learned that it would not be possible. I did not want to inject myself in my leg
muscle, because you know – the vein issue that the pharmacist warned me
about. Then I realized that hubby could
do it. He loves me after all and won’t
intentionally hurt me. Besides, it’s
only an injection and it’s not like I would be asking him to perform major
surgery on me or give me stitches.
When hubby arrived home that evening I told him about the
nurse that resigned and that I did not feel comfortable allowing the student
nurse to inject me. I told him that he
had to do it. To which he responded “Let me get this straight. You’d rather have me give you an injection
who has never done it before rather than have a professional do it?” To which I responded “Yes, if you love me you will give it to me in my ass”. Sometimes my husband does not get my sense of
humor.
After some negotiation hubby eventually agreed. So we went into the bedroom. I drew the correct amount of hormone out of
the vial, replaced the needle with a new one and handed it over to hubby. I then downed a glass of chardonnay and
presented my ass to my husband like a mandrill monkey during mating season. I told him to stick it in me already. At first he was hesitant but eventually he did
and he injected me flawlessly. There was
no bruising and very little bleeding.
It was then that I realized we are getting old. I mean if the most exciting thing you do on a
Friday night is downing a glass of chardonnay and getting a hormone injection
from your husband then it is probably a good time to start shopping for a retirement
home. But you are only as old as you
feel and since my hormone levels started stabilizing I have been feeling
younger, have more energy and certain other areas in our marriage has also
greatly benefited. And yes, I am talking
about the sex.
Hubby gives me my shot every Friday and we do this religiously. The doctor said that I would have to do this
for a year and then we will re-evaluate if further treatment is needed. The downside of all of this is having to buy
the syringes and needles. For some
reason people always give me “that look”
when they see what I am buying. It’s the
look that says “I am judging you. Are you a drug addict? Or are you dying of something.”
For some odd reason I always feel like I have to explain
myself in such situations; that I have to reassure those judgmental assholes
that I am not a heroin addict. But I
never do. Out load that is. But in my mind I am storming up to them and
getting into their personal space, up so close that they can smell my onion
breath from the salad I had for lunch that day and I scream “These fucking needles and syringes are for
my hormone injections. I have fucking
menopause. Mother! Fucker!” In my mind this is highly effective but in
reality I’d probably get punched in the face or kicked in the balls.
Last Friday night as we went through our new ritual I
accidentally stabbed myself in the finger when I did the needle swop. So not only did hubby have to deal with
injecting me he also had to deal with the blood fountain squirting out of my
index finger. Those needles are damn
near lethally sharp. Had hubby not seen
that the needle I stabbed myself with was in fact bent the injection would have
been very painful. We look out for each
other that way.
So what if people think I am a heroin addict once a month
when I go and buy my four syringes, four needles and alcohol swabs. So what if the cashier looks at me with those
eyes that has more questions than answers.
It is none of their damn business what it is for. It is however a tad strange that part of our
Friday evenings now includes syringes and needles, but you know what they say –
a couple that inject hormones for menopause together, stays together.
Till next time.
