Poke-Pokes

Waiting to get poked…in the arm, pre-verts! I have a Depo appointment.

I’m not exactly afraid of needles, but I don’t necessarily love them, either. I can’t watch whilst I’m being poked, I always have to look away.

We used to have to do Progesterone shots while I was pregnant with Aislyn. It was supposed to help prevent a subsequent premature birth (Desmond was 5 1/2 weeks early, just a couple days shy of them needing to fly me into Dartmouth Hitchcock while I was in labor).

We were in the NICU for eight days trying to teach Desmond how to latch properly. His hard palette hadn’t fully formed, yet. He was an impatient child right out the gate, got really, red-faced, howling-angry when he couldn’t get his milk on right away. He had a feeding tube until his last day in the hospital and was in the incubator.

He’s caught up, now, on growth. He’s 8. It’s hard to believe that much time has passed since he was a little baby, sleeping on his side in his tiny, striped onesie, all eyelash and long, skinny leg. He had a lot of hair, too. I knew he would; I had incredible heartburn during that pregnancy.

3:40 pm: How long am I going to have to wait for my poke-poke, I wonder? Was supposed to be at 3:30.

Aislyn was full-term. After she was born, I didn’t get nearly the attention from the nurses that I had gotten with Desmond. For some reason, I was surprised and a bit disappointed by this.

3:50 pm: No one told me they’d need a urine sample prior to my shot to verify I’m not pregnant. So I went at 3:10, just before I came here. Are you kidding me, right now? At least they gave me some water. I just want to get home, though.

It’s already dark, and not even 4:00, yet. December 21 is my favorite day of the year, because it’s the shortest day, and I know it’s all uphill from there.

I have a pretty hard time with winter. Obviously. Or I wouldn’t have a light therapy box.

This year will be better than the last two, though. I just know.