Owing to the fact that my health has been reasonably good, and I’ve never done a drug more illicit than caffeine, we don’t have much experience with needles in the house (unless you consider the sewing kind). So it’s been a new experience having my wife “shoot me up.”

When I was excused following the installation of my PICC line, I got a goody bag filled with syringes, needles (some assembly required), alcohol wipes, saline, and heparin lock. The nightly routine hasn’t been the same since.

Aren’t I dramatic? It’s been what, two days? No matter…

Let me close with this: when you’ve lived as sheltered a life as me (I?), any circumstance that leads to your wife handling injection duties is a ripe source for dark humor.

Give the gift of words.