Injection Intimacy

On Friday night we treated our dear friends to our injection ritual since we were hanging out at their apartment for the evening. It struck me as kind of odd that we were doing such an intimate thing in front of them; there was a hint of exhibitionism in the laying out of the vials of Bravelle, the syringe, the needle, the Q-cap, the cotton balls and rubbing alcohol for all to see. After D. reconstituted the drug and had it all ready for the injection, he turned to our friend J. – who had that very day completed his final class as a medical student and therefore is now a real, professional Doctor – and asked if he’d like to do the honors. I had this vague sensation of being passed around as though I was some two-bit whore.

Which is pretty ridiculous. I know D. wouldn’t have made the offer if J. wasn’t a doctor. And why do I see the process as anything intimate, anyway? Simply because the whole purpose of it is to make a baby? When the nurse draws my blood each morning I don’t feel some special bond between us being created. Yet, the 9:15pm shots have become this ceremonial rite D. and I share. It felt strange to be doing it in the presence of others – not to mention having someone else involved. After all, anyone can achieve intimacy through sex; it’s the really special couples that get it through administering infertility drugs.