Copaxone Flame In My Fat Cells

sing that ^^ like this, obviously.

(Admittedly it doesn't have the same ring to it, but it's more applicable to my life experience.)

About three weeks ago, I started my treatment protocol for the GD MS. Of all my stellar options [eye roll goes here], I sucked it up and chose the one that (potentially) affects my apparent vanity more than my quality of life: the daily injection with the most typical side-effect being injection-site reactions, including temporary lumps and permanent divots caused by fat cell destruction. For me, it was an infinitely more reasonable choice than spending my weekends on the couch with flu-like symptoms, but tell me that come shorts season! ...wait a minute. I don't wear shorts (outside of triathlons). Ah, and now you've had a little glimpse into my decision-making process.

The first shipment arrived on a Tuesday via overnight express, on ice, in a box about the size of your average over-the-range microwave. Opening this enormous box was not unlike disassembling one of those Russian nesting dolls, although the layers of packaging and boxes within boxes resulted in a 30-day supply of injectable medication instead of a tiny wooden figure of Mikhail Gorbachev, a decidedly less-delightful culmination of events.

The pharmaceutical company sent a nurse out to my house to show me how to do the injections. She is a really sweet lady who sort of reminded me of my mom, if a little older and rounder - and it turned out she is from Nebraska originally, because of course she is. She spent about two hours covering all the information and asking lots of questions, one of which was whether I was stressed at all when I first experienced my symptoms. I sort of laughed and told her I was in the middle of training for my first Ironman, so yeah, I was a little stressed. She went on to explain about the seven injection locations, which she described as The Fatty Areas: upper arms, stomach, hips, and thighs. Then, suddenly, she stopped and said "Oh! We might have a problem. Here, sit down and stick out your leg." What the...? But I did, and she proceeded to squeeze up and down the front of my thigh. I stared at her. Then she sat back and said, with a tone of utter relief, a tone that implied she was giving me an unimaginable gift, "Oh good. I was afraid that since you do these Ironman things that you wouldn't have enough fat on your thighs to do a subcutaneous injection, but you do!" What a weird way to kick me when I'm down.

Speaking of my fat, the injection device I use has a dial that controls how much of the needle goes into your skin based on how much fat you have to work with; a 5, the shallowest depth, means you are very lean, a 10, the deepest, means you are... very not. After explaining this, Nurse Sunshine eyeballed me up and down and said, "We're going to start you with a..." not ten not ten not ten "...hmm, let's try an 8." Whew. And, just so you know, by the end of it all, she decided that I should back it off to a 7.5, so...ha? I don't know. I'm looking for the bright side here.

So anyway, it's been three weeks and things seem to be going well. I do get the lumps, but they seem to go away after a day or so and, thanks to my apparently ample fat supply, they don't seem to show. Another one of those mixed blessings, I guess. And the needle itself doesn't hurt, but when the medication starts dispersing through the subcutaneous tissue (read: fat cells) it does burn a good deal for about 20 minutes or so (hence my kickass blog post title). So that's the plan for the foreseeable future. Honestly, all things considered, it could be much worse, and I am staying positive.

But really, FDA, let's hurry it up with that pill option.