I hate shots. When I was a child, I prepared myself for injections by pretending that I was a soldier going to war. I dreaded my visits to the pediatrician. Hanging on the wall, was a terrifying Norman Rockwell print of a doctor holding a huge needle to stick in the rear of a little boy. When I started IVF treatments, that nightmare came true when my husband began administering nightly hormone shots in my buttocks. He tried to lessen the blow by describing it as “just a little bee sting. Buzz, buzz.” But to me it was a 747 that landed.