For reasons I won’t go into, since they sound suspiciously like sniveling and whining, I have to take a certain medicine for the next five days. Regrettably, the medicine isn’t some pill that “must be taken with dry garlic ribs” or anything equally attractive. Instead of being ingested with tasty pork products, my medication has to be injected by needle into my stomach. Luckily, it’s a rather large target.

Unfortunately, however, I am very bad about needles. I can handle when they jab my arm for blood, but anywhere else and I get a wave of panic that circumvents all reason.

Once, for example, years ago, I had a gigantic boil on my face so large that, had it been on my neck, might have been mistaken for a goiter condition, or perhaps a conjoined head. When kindly, somewhat doddering Dr. McGovern went to lance it with a hypodermic needle the size of a pogo stick, however, reason abandoned me and I instinctively grabbed the hand brandishing the sharp, dripping instrument. We grappled for a moment and the good doctor stepped back and looked at me with a rather bewildered expression on his face.

“Ummm… Mr. McKerracher,” he began uncertainly, “you… uh… you really have to let me do this.”

My logical brain responded in agreement and contrition while my emotional side was silently screaming like a little girl.

“Of, course, Doctor, I’m sorry,” I squeaked out. I clenched my eyes as if to withstand a solar flare; steeling myself for the inevitable penetration. I briefly felt kinship with Princess Diana.

With that horrific experience in that back of my mind, I considered the best way to manage my daily regimen of paunch piercing since it was to be administered at home. I was shocked the medical system could possibly have more pressing issues to deal with than me and my needs but grudgingly accepted it had to be done.

Taking the needle out of the package, another memory invaded my conscious mind. It was five years ago when I had to administer the same drug in the same fashion. I had an unfortunate incident where I mis-handled the hypo after removing the safety cap and ended up dropping it, point-first right square on my… er… nether region. (True story, I swear.) Most unpleasant. I took great care this time not to have a repeat performance.

I tapped the hypo to bring the air to the top, just like a pro and pressed the plunger to remove whatever air was lurking in the system. I then made ready to plunge it into the roll of fat I had grasped and… failed. I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

“Honey!” I called from the bedroom. “Can you help me, please?”

“What’s wrong?” Cupcake rushed into our boudoir setting a land-speed record for her. “Are you okay?”

“I was hoping you’d help with this needle thing,” I asked, abjectly defeated.

“Are you kidding me?” snorted my significant other. “It’s a fairly small needle. People have to give themselves needles every day. What’s the big deal?”

“I don’t know,” I whimpered. “I just can’t bring myself to plunge a pointy object through my sensitive skin, into my soft underbelly. Call me crazy.”

“Fine,” sighed Cupcake, “although frankly, I’m not thrilled about it myself. I will try my best but I don’t want to hurt you.

“At least we can agree on that,” I nodded vigorously.

“Okay, grab your roll and hold on tight. Here it comes,” she threatened, thrusting the diminutive dagger at me.

Instinctively my hands shot up and clenched hers, fending off the attack, just like with Dr. McGovern years ago. A surreal reenactment of the psychologically-scarring event seemingly played out in slow motion, as I insanely fended off her well-intentioned attack.

“What the puff are you doing?” Cupcake raged. “I’m trying not to hurt you! What do you think you’re going to accomplish by wrestling with me? I’m the one with the sharp weapon, remember?”

“I… I… I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” I cried out. “I don’t know what came over me! I’ll be good. I promise. I tell you what; I’ll shut my eyes. Don’t warn me or anything, just slam it in.”

“Okay,” Cupcake responded doubtfully. “You really have to grow a spine or something, though. I’m not going through this everyday for the next week. By the way, you know it will hurt more if you tense up, don’t you? You have to relax or else.”

“That’s like when you were telling me not to show fear when I met up with that ferocious pitbull with the flecks of foam dotting it’s bloodstained jowls.” I gulped.

“It was a lab, not a pitbull and the flecks of white were where she was going grey,” snickered Cupcake taking great joy in correcting my firmly held recollection. “Now get ready because this is going to hurt like the devil.”

“You really hate me, don’t you?” I gasped.

“Oh, lighten up,” Cupcake chuckled evilly. “I should be able to have a little fun, too, you know. Okay, here it comes.”

I scrunched my eyes shut so tight, I could feel a new forehead furrow spontaneously develop. The very nanosecond the sharpened tip of the deadly weapon made contact with my sensitive tummy flesh, my midriff recoiled in fear, making Cupcake miss the enormous target and jab me twice before puncturing my tender flesh.

The poke burned like the dickens, if dickens burn uncomfortably. I thanked Cupcake, trying to ignore the irony. 

“My pleasure,” chuckled Cupcake menacingly. “I can’t wait for tomorrow.”

This will be a long week.