When it comes time for my weekly injection of Mounjaro, I can’t believe it has been a whole week. I feel as if I just stuck myself 24 hours ago. And I rebel because I didn’t want to do it again. Each time it is a bit intimidating because the procedure does not seem to take place like the instructions say. There is no up to ten seconds between clicks—the clicks are simultaneous and then we carefully look for a little red puncture wound and the fact that the plunger is down in the apparatus. And we do know that I push away from the table before I finish my meals and I have lost maybe five pounds and I do have some indigestion although not bad at all. So there are signs that it has happened and has its effects.
When I was feeling a bit sorry for myself, I remembered how Jim drove down Route 1 to UCA for 44 days of radiation. He didn’t complain—at least not much. Just when the routine got changed when there was a machine malfunction. And all of this with Covid precautions so I really could not keep him company even when he got to ring the bell on his last day of treatment. And now five years later, he is doing well with one good follow-up test after another every six months.
So I am doing this to get that A1C down to pre-diabetes levels again and Dr. Delacruz assures me that it will be successful. I know it is worth avoiding diabetes to lessen the danger of heart disease and strokes.
So that’s it for another week. I am grateful there is a treatment that I can do and that I can afford the medication and that my husband is right here to support me through this each week.
