20 million of these bad boys three times a week for 48 weeks

On the nights that I have to give myself interferon, like tonight, I get sick to my stomach as bedtime approaches. Now when I rip open the little alcohol pads that I use to sterilize the needle, I get a whiff of the alcohol and have to suppress a feeling of nausea. I really hate that smell now, because it is a precursor for what is to come. Like some Pavlovian hound, I’ve been conditioned that the smell of rubbing alcohol now means that I will feel absolutely horrible for the next eighteen hours or more.

There is nothing to be done about it, so I have learned to go through the routine of self injection as quickly as possible. If I slowed down to think about it, I would likely pitch the whole thing out the window. Then there is nothing to do except post a short blog entry and crawl under the covers.

My friend, Phill, told me the other day that when this is all over, we are going to have a celebration like no other, and that I will have permission to indulge in anything that makes me happy. That was a pleasant thought. I honestly had not been thinking that there would actually be a day when all of this would be behind me. It seems like melanoma has dominated every day of my life since last September. While it is true that I will have to watch for reoccurrence for the rest of my life, this medical procedure has an end. So Phill is right. I should keep my eye on the end result. And although I will struggle through these next ten months, I know things are going to be SO GOOD on the other side.