Injecting a few cubic centimeters of mystery juice into your fatty tissue is not really a matter of concern to the typical Hepatitis C patient. What's troublesome is what happens next. It's what happens eight hours later when you go to bed with aches and chills like the worst winter's flu. It's what happens twenty four hours later when waking up is hard to do. Really really hard to do. It's what happens forty eight hours later when the spouse and children you love more than anything in the universe become the most annoying thing in that universe. It's what happens seventy two hours later when you want to rip the head off of the boss who's also one of your best friends because he had the temerity to say "Good morning, how are you doing?"
It's a really big deal when you don't know who the fuck you are anymore, but you do know it's pretty much all because of that interferon shit you shot up a couple of days ago and plan to do again in a couple more days.
And you go through all that on the coin-toss chance that it will actually make a difference.
That's the biggest deal of all.