Giving it a Shot
|Selfie with the Space Needle|
When the FDA approved Zinbryta (daclizumab) last month, one line in the FDA press release “stuck” out to me: “long-acting injection that is self-administered by the patient monthly.” Injection. Self-administered. In other words or in plainer language that anyone with multiple sclerosis can understand, the FDA is referring to SHOTS. There is a reason I’ve written that in ALL CAPS. Because for years, shots have FREAKED ME OUT. And just when it appeared giving yourself a shot for your MS was going the way of the dodo and of friends to invite over for dinner who consume gluten, this news drops.
For some, shots are fun. The band LMFAO is famous (infamous?) for singing about shots. Steph Curry, Ronaldo, and Ovechkin all enjoy taking shots. Ansel Adams was a shot expert. Katniss Everdeen has an awesome shot. Me? I’m not a huge fan. Since childhood, I’ve tried to follow a general rule: AVOID SHOTS. Getting diagnosed with multiple sclerosis ten years ago, though, sure mucked that up. My options back then: a daily shot, a few times a week shot, or a weekly shot—with a needle so large you might mistake it for a Seattle landmark.
Now if you think I am exaggerating my fear of needles for the purposes of blog humor, you would be wrong. I gave up watching medical shows years ago because of needles. I cringe and close my eyes if I catch a glance of someone getting a tattoo, even a tattoo of a cute, carefree dolphin with sparkles and rainbows. Heck, I’ve weighed the benefits/drawbacks of lockjaw to argue the possibility of evading a tetanus shot.
|Ovechkin likes to take shots and give them.|
So when I gave myself my very first shot over a decade ago, it was an experience that I’ll remember forever. And, unfortunately, so will poor Laura and the 5-foot-nothing Panamanian MS nurse who had to prop up my lifeless body. Apparently, at the time my brain was not comfortable with the fact that I was sticking a SHARP NEEDLE into my PRECIOUS SKIN and then INJECTING MEDICATION. And by not comfortable, I mean it went into total shutdown mode, which I discovered is not recommended for a number of reasons. For starters, you need a functioning brain. Second, you are holding a sharp needle. Third, a tiny, 50-year old Panamanian woman is not the ideal person to support a 6-foot tall needle weeny who just made himself pass out while holding a sharp needle.
Fortunately, as my bottom was sliding out of the chair, the nurse grabbed and supported my rear end while Laura rather urgently sought assistance, or so I’m told. It would have been a sight to see if I had not been unconscious, dreaming of riding a rocket-powered Cheeto while lassoing cans beer (I’m just guessing here, but such dreams for me seem plausible if not probable). The MS nurse gently slid me to the floor and in moments I had the entire neurology department looking in on me as I was shaken awake.
|The closest I've ever come to a tattoo. Note the sparkles!|
When I came to, it dawned on me that all was fine with the world. The universe did not implode, Daniel Powter’s song Bad Day was still topping the charts (oh the irony), and the Cubs didn’t win the World Series. Over a thousand shots later, I can say with authority that giving yourself a shot—voluntarily, not under duress or threat—actually is not too hard. Or that painful. Or that terrifying. Seriously.