Infusion

 I arrive and am invited to sit, recline, put my feet up, and make myself comfortable. A pillow is placed beneath my head. Covered with a nice warm blanket, I settle in for a few hours of relaxation. A refreshing drink arrives and I'm informed a gluten-free meal will be on its way in an hour. Aaaah...this is the life!




Ok...so it's not so much like the photo above. Actually, it's nothing like the photo above. Let's try again...


As the remicade is infused into my vein, I visualize it traveling through my body, seeking out Sporadic Artie, and strangling him to death.


Ok, no, I do not in envision that. Actually, the antihistamine I take before the infusion makes me a bit loopy, and I can't concentrate on much of anything, nevermind visualize anything. I try to read, but after reading the same paragraph several times and not remembering a word, I give up. Instead I listen to podcasts of NPR's Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me or This American Life.  I doodle. I make lists. I sit back, close my eyes, and relax. I enjoy the relative peace and quiet. I drift off to .... and the iv pump beeps. The infusion is over.


When people hear I'm getting two-hour long infusions of a tumor necrosis factor inhibitor, they feel badly for me. They perceive this as a negative thing. As a chore. As something to endure. I see it as an infusion of me-time. I get to sit, relax, do things I enjoy, or do nothing at all. I'm not responsible for and I don't need to keep track of anyone other than myself. On days like today, my friend Renee comes with me and we sit and chat, catching up on each others' lives with out being interrupted. It is bliss. 




Some people go to the spa. I go for remicade infusions. 

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