D-Day

I don’t know what I was expecting from today, my D-Day, the day of my first Decapeptyl injection. I was just nervous. Not so much about the needle going in; more about how I would feel afterwards. At precisely 0857, I arrived at my local GP surgery, complete with loose clothing and an upbeat manner that I hoped would conceal the fact that I was absolutely bricking it.

Step 1: arrive on time – achieved. Yay me – I’m being extra kind to myself today, so I allow myself a quick ‘Well done’ moment, then smile as I cheerily greet the nurse.

Step 2: give nurse Decapeptyl that I have previously collected from pharmacy, so that she can administer my injection. Ah. Dammit. ‘Well done’ feeling evaporates. Apologies babble forth.

The nurse is really kind and understanding and, luckily, she has a spare vial in her cupboard (maybe somebody before me forgot theirs too?); so, she uses that vial instead, and asks me to bring her mine when I’ve been to the pharmacy to collect it, along with my HRT patches.

Step 3: expose bare bum, assume position, talk inane crap at fifty miles per hour, in an attempt to distract myself from the inevitable (which is administered approximately in the middle of my right butt cheek). Bonus point: the inevitable is quick and painless.

Step 4: return clothing to appropriate places, thank nurse for her understanding, ask her when I can expect to start feeling the side effects. She tells me that everyone is different – a perfectly fair response. Quick mental systems check: I appear to be feeling no different than when I walked in. OK, great, off I go then.

I notice a couple of twinges over the next few minutes, and some tenderness in that poor wee right cheek of mine. Still, nothing drastic has happened; so, pharmacy errands done, I head for home. En route, I contemplate treating myself to some strawberries; but I decide against it, as I am still wary of the side effects that I’ve been told to expect. Put more bluntly, I’m at least 75% certain that I’m a ticking time bomb. What if my head starts hurting when I’m trying to drive, or my abdominal pains start bothering me, or I get those shooting pains in my legs and feet, or that tender bit on my right butt cheek swells up? What if my ovaries suddenly mount a Spartan defence against the invading hormones in the narrow passes of my fallopian tubes, or my entire right butt cheek explodes?  

Better not risk it, I decide. I can always try asking my husband to get strawberries for me later on, if he feels sorry for me and I can bat my eyelashes convincingly enough. He’s in a Zoom meeting when I arrive home; so, I reheat my morning cup of tea, and get my TLC from the cats. 

It’s only when I’m reading the leaflets that came with the Decapeptyl and the HRT patches, that I realise I have no idea what to do next. I’ve never done this before. I’ve never put on an HRT patch and I have no idea when to put it on, or what comes afterwards. I’m still not feeling anything from the Decapeptyl – maybe I shouldn’t use the patch until I do? What if the patch makes me feel unwell, or what if I waste one by putting it on too soon? Why have I been prescribed twelve patches when I only need eight, until my next injection in four weeks? I call the surgery and babble again. Net result: it’s OK, I’m overthinking it, just put on the patch and carry on as normal.

Putting on the HRT patch is a bit like the opposite of a Christmas Lights Switch On – there’s no party atmosphere, no applauding onlookers (thank goodness), and you’re a lot less dressed. The leaflet tells you to apply the patch to an area of skin below the waist. I’m paranoid about forgetting it’s there when I have a shower later; so, I apply it to my right quadricep, front and centre. It looks and feels just like a large piece of that invisible sticky tape you use to secure wrapping paper on Christmas presents. Again, minus the party atmosphere, of course.

What now, I wonder. I had been so nervous about the side effects of today’s treatment, that I hadn’t given any thought to what I would do in the event of their absence. Now that I’m no longer operating heavy machinery, I’m less paranoid about those side effects, but still suspicious of them. I decide to make the best of the time and the sunshine, by going for a walk. Better not forget my mobile phone though, just in case of emergencies and/or exploding body parts. My poor husband. I hope he’s still home when I get back.