Misfire at the Airport

I was thankful to get through airport security with my 12 pre-filled glass syringes. Copaxone. I was well prepared for any trouble.  I had them stored in my carry-on in a special case with my prescription label and a note from my doctor.  I decided not to warn the security guard of my contraband. Instead, I held my breath and quickly glanced over at the tech as it went through the x-ray.  There wasn't even a pause, a flinch, a question or the dreaded interrogation.  Maybe he wasn't paying attention.  Maybe he didn't care.  I almost felt hurt.  I didn't even get to tell this complete stranger that I have this stupid disease that requires that I give myself injections every day.  No glance, no hitch, no story to tell. 

Our 6:30pm flight was delayed by three hours.  I felt the pain and fatigue running down my legs as we paced the airport shops.  My lovely assistant and youngest child, Leah, reminded me that I was due for my shot.  In an effort to be a positive role model, I had to buck up and get 'er done without complaint.  First, we went on a mission to create an ice pack.  Leah came up with the great idea of asking for a food-handlers glove filled with ice at Wendy's.  They handed me a to-go bag.  That'll work.  When we entered the bathroom, I was surprised to see a girl that I went to high school with over 20 years ago.  Holding tight to my little blue case, I felt like I had a dark secret in my hands and yet part of me wanted to respond to her query, "How are you?" with.."Well, I just got diagnosed with M.S. and I am in here to give myself a shot.  How 'bout those Lakers?"  Instead, we enjoyed a short but sweet exchange and I waited for her to dry her hands and leave.

Leah was excited to discover that there is a sharps container on the wall in the airport bathrooms.  Never noticed that before.  We both crammed into a stall.  I refused to use the larger one marked with a wheelchair..now..or ever.  So, there we were, standing sideways in front of the toilet.  We set my shot kit on top of the t.p. dispenser and went to work.  I unsealed the syringe while Leah got the auto-injector ready.  She pushed the plunger down.  A method we call "Lock and Load".  I couldn't remember which of the seven body areas we were scheduled to inject.  I left my m.s. calendar at home.  Leah was pretty sure we were on the right thigh.  After loading the syringe, Leah accidentally hit the button on the injector and we had our third misfire in the last month.  In an effort to defray the need to call the pharmacist to send a replacement syringe and all the red tape that requires, I grabbed the syringe which was still over half full out of the injector, pinched a large chunk of fat on my thigh with my left hand, closed my eyes, held my breath and stuck the needle into my leg...rouge style.  It seemed like it took forever...but I did it.  I had practiced on a foam pad without the auto injector in case of emergencies like this.  But  this was the first time I had actually done it on myself.  I didn't pass out in the airport stall next to my ten year old daughter.  Thank the Lord!  In all the excitement, I dropped the glass syringe on the concrete floor and quickly snatched it up lest someone in the stall next to me thought I was a drug user.  Well, technically, I am.

I held the ice bag to my leg as we continued to pace the airport.  I looked like I had been shot.  Well, technically, I had.  And Leah was there with me through it all.  She was disappointed that I had forgotten to use the sharps container and had thrown the syringe in the trash.  Oops, Aunt Marge strikes again.