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MINKA
My body aches. My joints. My knees. My legs and arms. My wrists hurt, and holding a scalpel today was a stark reminder of my screwup.
Moving to a new city has put me off my routine. Having a new job in a new building, with new people, and that one cop who insists on being in my space, has put my carefully laid schedule on the back burner.
Having a case call me out at night, and then an employee sleeping on my couch, has made me forgetful.
And now, I pay the price with the way my body aches and my heart hurts.
Though, the second is because of a sweet little girl who tried desperately to voice her feelings and keep her sisters safe.
Letting myself into my apartment and moving straight to the fridge, I snatch the plastic container filled with several dozen small glass vials from the middle shelf. Taking it to the counter, my hands shake as I select two vials and set them aside. Quickly, I place the clinking container back in the fridge and shut the door, then I snatch a second, larger tub from the shelf above, taking it down to collect my supplies.
Tourniquet. Syringes. Sterile wipes.
Strangely, considering my job, I still break out in a cold sweat when I think about sliding the needle into my veins. But it’s my life. It’s my responsibility. Which means it’s my unavoidable obligation, and a stupid mistake I made by forgetting last night.
Compounded when I forgot again this morning.
Snagging a butterfly needle, tape, a plastic syringe large enough that I only have to prepare a single dose, and cotton balls, I dump my supplies beside the glass vials and shuffle back to the fridge once more, though this time, it’s for a bottle of water.
I’d prefer it to be coffee. Or Pepsi. But I have neither, since Tim is yet to deliver my groceries and I’m too distracted to do my own. So I settle with the water and stop in front of my annoying science experiment.
Rolling the glass vials between my fingers with practiced moves, I gradually bring the temperature of the contents up. It’s a slow process, an exercise in patience when, in all other aspects of my life, I tend to move quickly.
Taking the black tourniquet, I dump my coat and scowl at the bruising that circles my wrists. The ache in my joints. The memory plaguing my mind after a moment of passion.
Turning away from my coat with a shake of my head, I slide the tourniquet along my arm and secure it inches above my elbow.
Uncapping the first vial, then the second, I tear open a couple of single-use disinfectant wipes and clean each stopper, using a separate wipe for each. Taking a double-ended needle next, I remove the cap on one end and pierce it through the vial containing powder, then uncapping the other end, I repeat the process and seat the second vial on top so the diluent begins trickling through the needle and mixing with the powder below.
Mixing and administering my own medication has been something I’ve done for as long as I can remember. A job my parents once did, but from about the age of seven or eight, I took over with their supervision, until finally, around ten years old—Louisa’s age—I started doing it all on my own, only letting my parents know when I was running low on supplies and they had to get more.
There’s a reason my mom and dad worked so much, and it wasn’t only because the cost of living was so high. No. There was the addition ofmycost of living. A literal tax my family had to pay, because without my meds, I would die.
It would be slow, it would be painful, and in the end, that would be it; lights out.
What a way to go.
When the diluent finishes mixing with the powder below, I remove the needle and trash, then I slowly start spinning the remaining bottle with gentle twists. Deliberate turns.
Mixing the diluent and factor is a fine art, and shaking would compromise the medication inside.
When I’m done, I look down to my left elbow, and though I would usually tap the vein to help bring one up, the fact I’ve kept the tourniquet on longer than usual means I don’t have to. Thick blue veins stand at attention the way a puppy might await a treat.
Setting the reconstituted factor VIII aside, I go to work preparing the syringe. Attaching the filter needle, and removing the cap with clean fingers, I draw air in first, then I follow the same action but fill it with medication until it’s all gone from the bottle, and the clear solution sits tall in the thick plastic syringe.
Turning it up so the air bubbles float to the top, I push each bubble out and stop only when the factor touches the tip. Finally, I set the instrument aside and go to work disinfecting the injection site with a fast swipe of a third alcohol wipe.
I toss the trash, pick up the butterfly needle as my stomach whooshes with nerves, and pushing it toward my bulging vein, I slide the sharp end in and release the tourniquet in the same breath, finally allowing my body a moment to relax.
Soon, I’ll have the medication inside me, eighteen or so hours later than I should. But it’s here now, and soon, the pain in my wrists will go away.
Taping the butterfly so it remains secure, I grab the plastic syringe again and slowly start pushing the clear solution into my vein. It stings at first; it stings every single time, and it’s that pain that makes my hands sweat and my stomach drop. But after the initial five or six seconds, the discomfort goes away, and my brain slows to a crawl.
I enter what feels like a meditative state. My very own zen, a place I find only when doing this. Which means I get it for only five minutes every other day. But it’s enough. It’s my way of resetting the world and feeling what I need to feel while blocking out the rest.
Blocking out the pain I feel for the sweet and innocent Louisa Thoma.
