Enough about me... let's talk more about me

2.4.2003 The mojo ... is good!

“This is Ted Koppel reporting and I’m here to say that the mojo … is good!”

That’s right—for the record, my mojo is fine.

On the other hand, the unfortunate news is that due to some imbalance, Elizabeth needs some assistance during the cycles—let’s just say sort of a little boost. Actually, this is better news that we worse feared. Plan for the worse, hope for the best, they always say.

The witch doctor (of course, that’s not his real name nor title, but I’ll just call him that for reference sake), prescribed her some serious medicine where she has to have these three-inch needles injected into her leg daily for 7 straight nights. The poor girl is such a champion, cause first of all, the first sight of that needle, I thought I was going to faint.

The doctor asked if I wanted to learn how to give them, for it is a useful skill to have. "You never know," he said. All I could think of was Nicolas Cage in the end of “The Rock” where he stabs himself in the heart with this gigantic syringe. I figured either this or if I decided to get a jump on a heroin addiction—either way, I guess the witch doctor thinks this is a useful skill for me to have.

Anyway, Elizabeth is knowledgeable about my paranoia of needles and opted instead to give herself the shots seeing how she works as a nurse, she already knew how to administer them. 'Give herself the shots,' the thought kept running through my head. I couldn’t believe it--Nicolas Cage ... Nicolas Cage. Afterwards, out of sympathy, I asked Elizabeth if she would rather me help, but she kindly declined. She must have weighed this against imagining me trying to administer a gigantic needle shot into her own leg.

When the time came, I cringed and tried not to look. I turned my head away a full 90 degrees, but my eyes shifted back just enough so I could watch ... just a little. Ouch. And for some ungodly reason, I started doing the chicken dance. Well, it was more like the I’m-so-disgusted-I-need-to-get-away-but-I’ll-stick-around-just-in-case-you-need-me dance. All together with full facial contortions.

On the seventh night, we had to visit the witch doctor again where he performed an ultrasound and stated, “It was time.” He wrote us a prescription that we were to fill that night that would free the ripened eggs from their stems, bringing Elizabeth into full ovulation mode. Mind you, it was 9PM already. We must have visited like four pharmacists only to find that this injection was very rare. It was steroidal based, very potent, and usually it would have to be ordered. The turnaround time was 48 hours.

I just stewed, “That witch doctor… that freakin’ witch doctor. If he knew we had to get this tonight, why didn’t he let us know in advance? …Cause he’s a freakin’ witch doctor.”


Okay. Think productive. We were desperate and didn’t know where else to turn but to a local hospital, thinking that they would have an ample supply of this medicine. We entered through the front entrance and approached the security guard, “Which way to the hospital pharmacy?”

He conversed with us briefly and noted how the hospital pharmacy wouldn't carry that type of medicine, and anyhow, happens to be closed for the evening. He did know of a public pharmacy that was opened until midnight, located about 5 miles away that most likely would carry this medicine.

We thanked him and rushed outward.

We thought to ourselves wondering how that security guard was so knowledgeable about medicines. “Who was that masked man?”

Moments later, we arrived at Neergard Pharmacy, located in Park Slope, Brooklyn and surprisingly, and affirmingly, they had it in stock. They said it would take about an hour to fill the prescription. We were fine with this and blissfully relieved.

We found a neat homey restaurant across the street that had a flashing neon sign in the window where we conversed and laughed for an hour. We talked about our times we have had already together, the places we've been to, the things we have seen, and times still to come.

To me, I recall this hour as one of those special moments we have had together.

Afternote – okay. The gynecologist wasn’t really a witch doctor. I was just slightly upset. As noted in the previous entry, he was a very nice cordial man … a little too money hungry, in my opinion, but he was trying to be helpful nonetheless.

email a copy of this entry to a friend



...One thing is that no matter how old I am, I probably will not like being called sir or mister, for they have always seemed too far out of reach...




Be notified of page updates

get free updates