Be Brave Project Day Seven: Stickin' a Needle in the Big Boy

I do not like needles. The sight of them makes me feel squeamish and rather as if I've just swallowed a hot brick: I think that lots of other people feel the same, or else why would do so many close-ups of injections appear in films? I'm always having to be on the alert for some dripping 6-incher held erect, about to plunge into its waiting destination. . .(ooh my, that came out rather porno, didn't it? Not my intention. Blame the movies).

So I do not like needles at all. But life being the vale of tears and broken shoe-straps that it can occasionally be, I've had many, many annoying blood tests where I'm led to a barely trained nurse who sits behind a white curtain, holding a long needle in her shaking hands. Now, Elusive D. has a plump lavender vein in each inner elbow--easy targets that don't even need that shoulder tourniquet--but I've sat on too many low vinyl stools, my head turned towards the wall, while these nurses stab me repeatedly. I walk out of there looking like the worst kind of junkie.

However, in the spirit of the Be Brave Project, I decided that I would give a diabetic an injection of insulin. 2x, so that I could say that I really had done it. The diabetic in question? An 18 pound tabby cat from New Jersey, named Tiki. Think Tony Soprano with a taste for bats. (Seriously, look at the cat--Look at that Fuck You gaze. Wouldn't he suit some golder-than-gold jewelry, and maybe an open-necked bathrobe to wear when he gets the paper from the driveway?)

What I was really dreading was the idea that a) I wouldn't be able to get the needle in, and would be jabbing ineffectually at this poor animal, and b) that the needle would go in, with a sort of pop! as I broke the skin (urgh), and c) that I'd wuss out and fail to press the plunger at the right time, and pump insulin all over the wrong places.

So I stuck the needle into the rubber-tipped bottle of insulin, and retracted the plunger until the dosage hit the 4.5 line. Then I went to where Tiki was hunched over his dinner. I half expected him to say, "Fuck you, Paulie--I'm fuckin' eating here!" But he didn't even look up. Grabbed a bit of skin beneath his meaty shoulder blade, closed my eyes, and stuck the needle in. Tiki didn't even flinch. I pressed the needle's plunger until it wouldn't go any further, then retracted the needle. I looked at the spot where I'd injected him, and you couldn't see a thing. Hey! (My Aunt watched the entire procedure, and assured me it all went fine.)

And then yesterday I did it with my eyes open. So I figure that counts as my Being Brave Act.

I was upstate NY at my Aunt's house this weekend, in Sullivan County. I had gone up there with the idea that perhaps I could find a place to live; having come to the realization that I cannot afford anything in Manhattan unless I invent a time machine and go back to 1995 (h'mmm. . .Clinton as President, no war, no deficit, and a happy stock market. But no Project Runway. I think I could live with that exchange, much as I adore Tim Gunn and want him to find a lovely boyfriend, preferably an Australian who's horse-hung).

Anyway, I looked at houses--one was a grim Victorian wedged between a chicken farm and a house where dirty children apparently run free. It was filled with the stench of 1000 small dogs and cats. One was poshly remodelled, but somehow uninspiring--and no eat-in kitchen, plus next to a restaurant parking lot. One was very sweet. A small ranch house, and I've never been a fan of ranch houses, with their low ceilings seeming a symbol of low expectations in general. But this one was immaculately cared for by the same couple for the last 40 years. There was land with a gazebo and peach trees. But. . .but. . .I couldn't see me living in that house somehow--fake wood panelling and such tiny rooms--and it's a long long winter in upstate NY, when peach trees and gardens will make no difference at all. Plus, I'd only seen 3 houses. So who knows? I might regret that one.

A complication also set in. Lots of people talking. Apparently there's a gas company moving into the area, wanting to mine natural gas from the land. They'll pay farmers good money to rent this land: The problem is that their process involves leaving chemicals--they won't tell the residents what they will be using--in the soil after they remove the gas. This is soil that grows the vegetables, that feeds the animals, that provides the beauty of the area.

So I think I will be in Manhattan for one more year. Work (Being Brave) on my credit rating and my income--and then try to buy in the spring. Let's hope that there are still houses being sold. That people up there have not become multi-millionaires whose houses cost 10x what they do now. And that they haven't sprouted extra fingers due to touching contaminated soil.

Today Being Brave; more sorting out of financial crap.