Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Enbrel. For the past two weeks, I open my fridge door, push aside the cottage cheese and snag what looks like a marker. A quick alcohol swab to my extremities, and I’m jammin’ that baby into a thigh, forearm or buttock. You would think that the strangest part would be prepping my forearm to receive a needle without consulting a former drug addict, but it’s been the absence of pain that has been the realization of its existence.