102. Dodging Morphine
I had another horrible weekend so far as pain is concerned. I came thisclose to taking my first dose of morphine. Yeah. Yeah. I’ve said it before, but this time was different. I really was thisclose to finding pain relief in the Comfort Kit. The pain I was experiencing came fast and furious late Sunday afternoon, was harder than any other pain I’ve ever felt, and offered no break between the stabs and jabs. The assault was mostly confined to my left side back-ass-hip-pelvis-femur area, but Chewy Louie also brought a second munching team that descended on my left shoulder. The pain there was tolerable in comparison to what was happening in my lower quadrant, but the shoulder activity was disheartening because it was the first full out assault on one of my arms.
Let’s back up a bit. Every 72 hours my narcotic patch gets changed. After I forgot to change my old one for a new one a few weeks ago, the OB team at 181 and 183 set every alarm-ringing device we own with a 7 PM reminder for every three days. We chose that time because most everyone is home during the early evening hour and each person is more than capable of handling the switcheroo. One of this week’s patch changes was scheduled for Sunday.
For most of the preceding week I’d been experiencing breakthrough pain in the left quadrant, nothing earth-shattering but enough to suggest the current regimen might need some tweaking. For some inexplicable reason, the painful attacks happened between 5 PM and midnight. When I met with Nurse M on Thursday we made a plan. I was to assess my pain levels from Friday-Sunday and decide if I needed an increased dosage. If that was the case, I was to call weekend hospice and inform them. A narcotic delivery from the pharmacy was expected sometime between Thursday and Saturday and would accommodate a status quo or an increase in pain meds.
At 7 PM Sunday the alarms at 181 and 183 sounded bringing the troops to my side. Hannah began the retrieval of an alcohol wipe to clean my arm, the patch to put onto my arm, and a super-de-duper bandage to keep it securely in place. She found 2 of the 3 necessary pieces. “Where’s the patch?” She asked.
“Oh shit,” was unisoned by Mr. and Mrs. Wonderful. “The pharmacy didn’t deliver the pain medication,” my voice elevated an octave indicating the sheer terror of that statement. I was already two hours into breakthrough pain and I knew what was on the hellish horizon.
I PANICKED!
WE PANICKED!
“Tim! Tim! What the eff? Why didn’t you remember I needed a drug delivery?”
“It’s not my job to keep track of deliveries!” He semi-snapped.
“Fair enough,” I semi-snapped, “but my job is to die and I’m doing that without any problems! Fix this, please Timmy fix this!” I sobbed. He was on the phone with hospice answering service within seconds. Hannah and Jessica were taking cover in the corner and remaining statue-still. We listened while Tim explained to the answering service that I had a question about my narcotic meds and we needed a callback from a nurse. While we waited, I ramped up on the intensity and frequency of pain and panic. I was never so happy to hear my cell phone ring a few minutes later.
“Hi, Sheryll, this is Joyce the on-call nurse. You have a question about your meds?”
I explained the situation. I moaned, groaned, and grunted in accordance with the level of pain I was experiencing. On several occasions I was brought to tears. Joyce knew the urgency of the situation: the patch I had on my arm was no longer effective, it was Sunday night which meant the pharmacy was closed and being managed by an on-call service, the medication I needed was a narcotic, and I was facing one of two outcomes: Joyce would prevail in her quest to navigate the obstacles and get me my medicine, or she and I would have to enact Plan B. Let me say this, Plan B sucked and it pissed me off.
After assessing where I was in my daily regimen of all of my meds Joyce instructed me to take my nighttime Tramadol at 7:30 then two more at 11:30 and continue to take them every four hours until morning. In the meantime she would work the pharmacy issue. If she was unsuccessful, I needed to prepare myself for morphine.
I have been very clear that I do not want to take morphine until I climb onto my deathbed. I have tolerated some intense pain on a couple of occasions when I could have, maybe should have, taken the morphine. But the general consensus in the medical field is that morphine very well may unleash hallucinations on me. If that were to happen at this stage, I would be terrified to use morphine when things get really bad. It’s who I am and I am central to this shit fest.
For those of you who weigh in on the side of, “Just take the morphine, it’s better than experiencing pain,” I counter with this, Since I’m the one handling the pain and am supposedly the one who gets to make the call, I’ll push myself to the limits, then take the morphine when I can no longer deal with the pain. The decisions have been on me. I don’t blame anyone else, and I don’t even tell anyone other than Nurse M and the She Devil about these incidents as they are happening. I suck it up and when the time is right I write about it. Well, here we are, I’m telling you about my pain and about my close call with taking morphine.
Being pissed off!
I have traversed the morphine minefield for ten months — to think I might have had to surrender my battle because of a pharmacy error was beyond acceptable. The situation WAS NOT being met with tolerance or understanding by Yours Truly. As for Tim, he was beyond pissed about the situation and about everything else. It’s tough to get Tim’s ire up, but when he’s pissed he doesn’t hide it or hedge his words. He sent the girls away, and sat with his wife who was being ravaged by pain. The bee in his bonnet was that I didn’t need to be experiencing any pain, let alone what was happening to me. Honestly, the continued stab and jab left no time to catch my breath between yelps and tears.
As for taking a hit of morphine — I was ALL-IN!
Like I said, I took Tramadol at 7:30. Joyce said she’d be in touch with me as soon as possible but I should plan on a couple of hours or so. If I couldn’t handle the pain during that time I should call and she’d walk me through the morphine. We heard from Joyce earlier than expected and received a delivery just after 10:30. Jessica had been pacing the halls upstairs and came down immediately to put the patches on. When her Florence Nightingale duties were done, she did her fingertip slide down my arm, said, “I love you, Mom,” and headed to bed.
Tim stayed with me until my next Tramadol dose at 11:30 and set my alarm for 3:30 for the dose after that. Even though the narcotic patches were in place, they weren’t expected to offer immediate relief. While Mr. and Mrs. Wonderful waited for the near-midnight pill-popping of Tramadol, we sat in our recliners, the stillness of the world around us being broken by my pitiful moans and groans. It was impossible for me to quell the sounds because they were part of the painful process.
Four important things happen before I climb onto the bed of death.
My pain and my pain med dosages increase.
My sleep increases and my awake time decreases.
My appetite and fluid intake decrease.
My ambulation becomes too difficult to be safe.
I have been through several rounds of #1. I am battling for every awake minute I can muster, so #2 is well in play. My appetite is usually the last thing I think about and admittedly it is an area that needs work. My fluid intake is perfect. My ambulation thus far is steady and strong. On Monday, I put myself on notice about my eating. My new rule: Every time I wake I will put something in my mouth. We now have puddings and jello at the ready. Tim has stocked up on little cheese and nut trays, we always have fruit salads made, and there are thirty or so cans of soup in the cupboard. There is no longer any need to make dinners because my eating is along the lines of snacking. Our provisions now reflect that.
I used to kid with Nurse M that we’d know I was in ‘eating distress’ when I stopped wanting danish. Well, that happened nearly a month ago. Eating becomes really difficult when you are nauseated and you are sleeping an inordinate amount of each day. No matter the circumstances, I am on a mission to keep my food intake in the ‘normal’ range. To aid me, I began a running list of what I eat. The portions are small, but that’s fine according to Nurse M.
If you are like me, then you’re thinking this run-around with pain is getting old. The thing is this: my move toward death is all about the pain. That’s most likely what will determine when I get into bed, so that’s what Nurse M and I will monitor and what I’ll blog about.
On a side note, I sort of look like a raccoon. A week or so ago I woke from a nap and noticed black semi-circles around my eyes. The markings were absolutely not the darkening circles of a sleepy person. Envision someone taking a shot glass, rubbing it in black makeup and pressing it against the eye socket. There isn’t a full circle on either eye, but there’s definitely enough to know that something is happening in that area.
“Broken blood vessels,” was Nurse M’s initial assessment. We may never know the exact cause, but we will watch this especially for the onset of discomfort.”
After I gave my Stable Mabel vitals to the She Devil and told her about the raccoon eyes, she wondered, “It almost sounds like you have tiny fractures there. You’ve mentioned on a few occasions that you have pain in that area when you wash your face.”
“Yeup, I do. And I also have something really weird on the back of my skull.”
“What?”
“A divot.”
“A what?”
“Right at the base of my skull there is a three inch long, horizontal indentation that’s maybe an eighth of an inch deep at the ends, and in the center section it’s probably a quarter of an inch deep.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Only when I touch it. The general consensus by me and the few people who have run their fingers across it is that it’s really freaky.”
“I’ve never heard of a skull divot. As soon as we hang up I’m going on an internet search.”
“I can only imagine what type of spam you get.”
A really big laugh came from the She Devil. If I haven’t mentioned it before, Kathy Gaffney has a really infectious laugh and no matter how far away you are when you hear it, you know it belongs to her. She ended our call with this, “No one can say your journey hasn’t had its twists and turns.”
Yeup that’s me — interesting to the bitter end!
A mashup of wonderfulness.
Sweet Amanda had her baby boy on August 1st. Luca is absolutely beautiful and is settling in nicely with Mom, Dad, and big brother Elliot. Our good friends Debbie and Phil Gagnon are over the moon with their newest addition. I need to say how happy I am that I lived long enough to welcome this baby and to congratulate Amanda and Ralph. I will be meeting Luca in the very near future. What Joy!
A somewhat new reader, Angela Moore, emailed and said she headed out to Pinecroft Dairy for some orange/pineapple ice cream. I guess my suggestion to Tim to grab some lunch and bring me a dish of OPIC made her mouth water for ‘her favorite’ Pinecroft flavor. I hope you enjoyed your cone, Angela! Still haven’t seen mine, Tim!
Don and Denise are still impatiently waiting for rain. Their beautiful landscaped homestead is struggling to hold on to its flora and fauna. One good thing to come of this dry spell is that it happened at the same time Don retired. So what’s a guy to do when he has tons of time on his hands and little to do in his gardens? He grabs hold of his sister’s books, Her Scream and Stay Safe, and gets to work. This is what he had to say after cracking his first and second SOB book:
Dear Sheryll,
In my younger days I used to spend a lot of time on the beach, usually as people were leaving in the 4 to 5 PM time frame. I’d be kicked back reading a good book, an extremely peaceful time to do so. I loved it. I don't know why I drifted away from doing that, but with my recent retirement and my heading to the beach I packed your book Her Scream. Great choice made.
Her Scream is simply a fantastic read. Easy reading. I love the short chapters because that's actually how life is. In the course of one's daily activities, a conversation here, a change in direction there, a thought about something or another, etc., etc. In this book, you tell us about some sicko's penchant for self-gratification at someone else's expense. You shed light on just how many people's lives can be affected by one creep. Your sudden chapter heading when you name the culprit was so perfectly timed, I knew now who to hate and still had plenty of the story to consume. Loved it and could not put it down, read it in short order. Great job and now on to the rest of the story with, Stay Safe.
Stay Safe, how interesting. We now learn why and what made the sicko from Her Scream tick. I just love what you did here! The sicko's quote, "Not by a longshot," from Her Scream and the questions your readers may have had about that quote are answered here. Thank you. I am about two thirds of the way through and am delighted there's a new twist and another sicko for all to enjoy, I mean hate.
By the way, the legitimate and loving sexual trysts in your storytelling are r.e.a.l.l.y. fun. It makes you want to grab your partner and bang the headboard against the wall so to speak.
Love Ya,
Donnie
And. So. There’s That.
Speaking of SOB books.
I published Suzanne. A personal highlight of my writing and publishing career — and pretty much in my overall life. I wrote Suzanne during the months I was waiting for head-surgery twenty years ago. To say I was a novice writer is a major understatement — to say I was a good storyteller even back then was spot on. After Suzanne, I continued cranking out good stories. They are the manuscripts Nancy is currently cleaning up. The only story I held back from giving her was Suzanne. I didn’t want anyone working on her even if it meant she’d languish in the basement of my home.
Early last spring, I decided to rescue her and breathe new life into her. Over the course of several months, I deconstructed the Suzanne storyline and took the 175 page manuscript to a fully researched and rewritten 450 page book. Suzanne is my crowning victory. A personal triumph; one born of determination and grit; one brought full-circle in the dead of night in 2022 when I couldn’t sleep.
I say Suzanne came ‘full-circle in the dead of night’ because while I waited for surgery in 2001, I walked the floors, day and night. While I walked, I began laying the outline for a book. At 3 AM on March 21st I sat down and started writing Suzanne. Putting words to paper in the dead of night became my stolen writing hours. I’d get swept away and only stopped when Tim and our girls came down for breakfast. I happily put Suzanne aside, did the wife and mom thing, then anxiously waited for 3 AM to roll around again.
There’s a wonderful symmetry to my working on Suzanne when the world was still and my heart was full of this writing dream. Many tears were shed when I finished the book I was destined to write. I was full of pride at my perseverance and success. So imagine what I thought and felt when I learned I’d forgotten to fix an error I made twenty years ago, an error that slipped through the cracks of my rewrite, an error that sullied my Suzanne.
The book had been up for sale for an hour before I realized the mistake. I sent an urgent email to Nancy explaining the situation and asking that she pull it, make the corrections, and republish it. The Goddess did her thing and I am happy to say the new and improved Suzanne was ready for purchase by Sunday evening.
Now, here’s the thing. A few copies were purchased before the error was fixed. Those who jumped right in and bought the book, pay attention. You have in your possession a First Edition with an error in it. If you want to send your book to me, I’ll sign it and get it back to you — who knows, it might be worth something, someday. Just email me and we’ll make plans.
It’s always something with me, isn’t it!
Suzanne validates one of my quotes:
When I reached far beyond what I knew I could do,
I learned I was destined to do a whole lot more.
And I discovered that being successful is a personal thing,
it’s something you get to define and claim for yourself.
Twice in this lifetime Suzanne took hold of my hand and led me through crippling pain and sadness to a place where I found success and utter joy.