Life as usual

As I walked into my least favourite place on earth, the burns unit, I tried not to think about what was on the agenda. I knew I was having steroid injections into my scars and I knew it was going to hurt. But I wasn't sure about anything else. I had questions...

The consultant, an imposing man with a mop of Einstein hair swept in, ready to jab me with the two needles he brandished. He didn't have many answers for me, only that I would have this done every 6 weeks until it was effective and that numbing gel didn't work so I should try mindfulness and breathing to combat the pain. So, armed with this vague knowledge I turned my head away and gripped my Mum's hand.

During the procedure I wasn't sure how many times the needle impaled me but upon counting the residual holes I'd had 12 steroid injections in an area of scarring about 2 inches by 1 inch. He wanted to do more and the injection hovered perilously close to some other scars but I had to stop! It's going down on my list of painful experiences; it felt something akin to having drawing pins slowly wiggled into your flesh. The needles have to be quite sturdy to get through the thickened scar tissue and the consultant has to be firm and heavy handed to get it done.

"Do I have to do anything particular now?" I asked the consultant.
"Not at all," he said. 'Get on with life as usual. I'll see you in six weeks."