Wrath of Allah, losing my loved ones, failures, lizards, maulvis—what’s common among all these? Well, these are my fears—things I am afraid of, things I would rather not deal with, things that keep me up at night – along with a weak bladder. This list is not complete by any stretch of the imagination. One major omission? Needles. Given a choice, I would never get myself poked for any reason. I’ll take shots only if there’s a very compelling reason, like life or death.
I believe my fear is mostly psychological because the shot site, which Yusufi Sahab labeled as ‘nuqta e azziyat’ (point of agony), starts hurting long before the needle pierces my skin. That’s why I start crying just in the anticipation of that prick. Also, I cannot let anyone casually inject me. The person administering the shot must have the skills of a counselor, clergy, and influencer all at once. He should have the sympathetic ear of a professional psychiatrist to listen to my rants and excuses without judgment. He should offer intense pre- and post-needling counseling. He must have the patience of a kindergarten teacher, answering “how much is it going to hurt?” for the nth time without going crazy. He should also have the gentle touch of the staff at a neonatal unit, handling me with extreme care. Like a Boy Scout, he should be well-prepared—with a heavy-duty band-aid and an even heavier dose of compassion.
This fear has never stood in the way of me getting the care I need. I just let the doctors know that I don’t do needles. They must find an alternate treatment like “dum darood” or “jhaar phoonk (exorcism).” If they can’t find an alternate treatment, I’ll find an alternate doctor.
Vanity shots are all the rage these days. People are getting every kind of lotion and potion injected into their bloodstreams, hoping these shots will serve as micro-doses of the elixir of youth. I know people who had their forehead lines softened with collagen injections. I have friends who swear by Botox and other fillers. I even have a colleague whose lips tripled in size overnight. She was going for the bee-stung look, but she ended up looking like a victim of an attack by a swarm of giant, mutated bees from a horror movie. I’ve also seen hosts of morning talk shows on Pakistani TV promoting and encouraging dusky ladies to get ‘rang gora karne walay teekay (fairness shots).’ It seems we’ve never weaned ourselves off our obsession with “chitti chamri (fair complexion).”
There are many things that bother me when I look in the mirror. I tend to squint a lot, creating a permanent ridge on my forehead. The crow’s feet around my eyes are turning into raven’s talons, becoming longer, deeper, and more menacing. My facial skin is losing its youthful elasticity. In computer programming, I’m a big proponent of using various brackets, braces, and parentheses—they add clarity and readability to the work. However, the same brackets around my lips make me look like a marionette. From the creases on my forehead to the sagging jawline and the thinning skin on my neck, many parts need attention. Fortunately, fixes are available, but unfortunately, they all come in syringes and vials and require a needle. Even if I got over my fear of a botched face job or the hefty medical bills that aren’t covered by insurance, the shiny, prickly needles keep me away from any of these promising transformations. I’ve even started to promote positive and graceful aging—at least until they invent a needle-free method to reverse aging.
So, what on earth made me go for a pair of completely optional shots willingly and eagerly? Being married to a guy who loves the great outdoors comes with perks and its downsides. One perk is that the entire family adopts an active lifestyle with numerous health benefits. The price is that we all must maintain the necessary fitness to keep up with that lifestyle. It used to be easy for me, but not anymore. The signs of aging aren’t just visible externally; the internal wear and tear are even worse. My joints, nerves, muscles, bones, and ligaments have nearly run their course. In my case, the most affected parts are my knees, genetically predisposed to arthritis. They creak like the floor of an old, rickety, dilapidated building. They’re stiff like a newly appointed army recruit, and they hurt like—well, there’s no comparison. Pain cannot be captured in a painting or described in a sentence or two. I can’t call it an ache, pinch, stab, sting, or burn. It’s all of the above and more, and these aching knees have turned me into the comic poet Zameer Jaafri’s famous old car, “Jo chalti hai to do tarfa nadamat saath chalti hai” (When it runs, bilateral embarrassment runs along).
Before swapping out the parts of this aging car, maybe some ‘servicing’ could boost performance. It was the summer of 2022, and we were planning a vacation to Banff National Park in Canada, which meant plenty of walking and hiking. Along with new clothes and sneakers, I realized I also needed a new pair of knees. That thought led me straight to an orthopedic surgeon. I always do my homework before seeing a doctor—thank heaven for Google. Mostly, I know as much, if not more, than the doctor. At least he can’t talk me into any unnecessary treatments. After researching the options, I was hoping for a rub or some prescription-strength painkillers.
The doctor, a young guy in his mid-thirties, wasn’t impressed by my monologue about my pain. I was his 15th patient of the day. He had seen so many malfunctioning knees that my wobbly ones weren’t exciting. Since the human body isn’t transparent, and modern doctors lack the abilities of yesteryears’ medicine men—who, according to Yusufi Sahab, “qaroora dekh kar marz bata dete thay” (could diagnose any problem just by looking at the urine sample)—he immediately sent me for an X-ray. Within minutes, he returned with the X-ray report in one hand and two syringes in the other. My diagnosis: mid-level arthritis. My options:
a) Live with the pain.
b) Take endless anti-inflammatory pills.
c) Strengthen my quads by cycling and lose ten to fifteen pounds. He compared my worn-out knees to tires that have lost their tread. “You can make them last longer by strengthening the motor and losing the junk in the trunk,” he bluntly suggested.
d) Get steroid shots directly into the knees.
Option A meant waving goodbye to the active lifestyle I once loved. My husband was okay with that, as long as I found him an alternate begum (wife). Option B meant risking ulcers and other side effects. Option C was a slow, steady, long-term process. I also didn’t like the comparison of my rear end to “junk in the trunk,” though it did motivate me to clean my car trunk the next day.
But I needed relief, and I needed it fast. In a moment of recklessness and uncharacteristic courage, I opted for option D.
That adrenaline-fueled courage lasted a good two minutes before I began doubting my decision. One look at those needles, and my resolve melted like an ice cube on a hot pavement. Maybe I could talk myself out of this. Maybe I didn’t need to climb mountains anymore. Maybe my husband could find another begum. Maybe I could try that herbal remedy with turmeric and snake oil. Maybe I could wait for a pain-free cure to be invented. Maybe, just maybe, I could run away. I prayed, drank water, and called my husband for some compassion. He texted back that he was in a meeting and that if the call was about knee shots, I must get them.
With nowhere to escape, I turned to the doctor, who was trying to be patient. I asked him yet again, “How much is this shot going to hurt?” He replied nonchalantly, “I don’t know, lady. I’ve never had one.” But I know for a fact that nobody has ever hit me. I told him, “Well, there’s a first time for everything. You better Lidocaine me up really well, or I might make some involuntary movements that could be painful—for you.” Then I closed my eyes, clenched my jaws, gripped the examination table, and got the shots amid rapid recitations of Ayat-ul-Kursi, punctuated by grunts of pain.
How bad were they? Actually, not that bad. My first thought was, “I should have shaved my legs.” I was able to drive home and even stopped to pick up some kabab parathay. Since we don’t drink, we desi people mark every “dukh sukh (joy and sorrow)” with food. I also wanted to celebrate my new knees the desi way—with flaky flatbread, beefy kababs, and loads of chutney.
For the next two or three days, I was sore. Normally, I would have used this as an excuse to take it easy, but we were about to leave for vacation, and I had errands to run. I forgot about my knees and the shots. Eventually, on day four, I realized I could bend without trouble. I was able to sit cross-legged on the floor and pack my bag without pain. I was running around town without my legs complaining. When we reached Banff, we hiked and hiked. I kept up with my fit family. On day two, I walked almost 41,000 steps and climbed 116 floors, and I was fine. The ghutne (knees) were working perfectly, giving me great mileage. These new knees were the best shopping I did for this trip.
Unfortunately, the effects of the shots only lasted a few months, but I made the most of that time, enjoying my newly serviced knees while I could. The shots made my vacation incredibly productive. They were worth it—totally worth it. The results were so great that I may have even overcome my fear of needles. I still don’t care for collagen or Botox for my wrinkles—I can live with those reminders of a life well-lived—but I would happily get my kneecaps poked again. I don’t want to look like a young gun, but I definitely want to frolic like one. *”Balle balle! Vay jad tu meri tor wekhni—mere ghutne te laga de teeka—jad tu meri tor wekhni!”* (If you want to see how I prance, just poke my knees with anti-inflammatory injections).
P.S. This article is not an advertisement for any brand of steroid shots for knees.
