Before IVF, I was that guy.
The one who looks away when there’s blood. The one who doesn’t dare to watch when someone gets an injection.
Needles and me… not friends.
Then I found out injections were going to be a daily thing.
My first reaction?
This feels like asking me to solve Elon Musk’s Mars landing problem.
I started asking everything at once.
Who’s going to do this?
Do we need to go to the clinic every day?
How does this even work?
My mind just kept running. Like one big Amazon river with too many things inside.
At first, I thought the clinic would handle it.
But no.
We had to do it ourselves.
Either she pokes herself, or I poke her.
Somehow, a thought came in.
A very rare one, even for me.
If this is part of the process… I should take part in it.
So I did.
First time holding the needle, I don’t remember much. I think I was just focused. Trying not to mess it up.
First injection?
Manageable.
I even joked, “Lucky this sharp thing not landing on my own skin.”
Seeing the needle go into her… I didn’t overthink it. Just fast in, fast out.
Get it done.
After a few days, something changed.
I started getting used to it.
I even told myself — do it better. Make sure she doesn’t feel the pain.
Most of the time, it worked. Maybe 8 out of 10, she didn’t even notice.
The other 2… not perfect, but not disaster either.
It became routine.
Still stressful, just not something I would normally do in life. But no longer something I fear.
From the start, it already felt crazy anyway.
At some point, we even joked about it.
If one day there’s a zombie apocalypse, our survival rate is probably higher.
We won’t just raid supermarkets. We go pharmacies.
Stock up antibiotics, medications… and I can handle injections.
No doctor needed.
Just don’t ask why we thought about this.
Looking back, this part meant more than I expected.
I wasn’t just there for the result.
I was part of the process.
The pain didn’t land on my skin… but I felt every part of it.
Her skin felt like my skin.
Her pain felt like my pain.
We were in it together.