By Chernise Joseph
I wanted to do some corny joke like, ‘Yep, that’s me! I bet you’re wondering how I got here,” for the photo from my infusion on Friday, but it seemed a little too double-edged… badumtiss. No? That’s alright, infusion jokes are never funny unless they’re mixed up juuuust right. Ha, okay, in all seriousness – my multiple sclerosis said hello to me on Friday. Well, I suppose it always says hello, but it likes to do it in unique ways sometimes like in the form of an 8-hour infusion. Whew! You read that right. Eight hours of beeping, vitals, tubing, fluorescent lights, too-cold rooms…
I used to hate infusion days. They were long, yes, but they were mostly scary to me. I didn’t know what to expect, nor did I really understand just how important what I was doing was. Of course, I had done as much research as a 23-year-old with a humanities degree could do, but my brain still felt frazzled. What if I spontaneously combust? What if I grow an extra head? What if I’m patient zero for the zombie apocalypse? It was all I could think of going up to the infusion, during it, and even after for a while.
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