14. Pill Pusher
When Tim and I learned I was in deep shit, medically speaking, of course, we had a sit-down with Hannah and Jessica. We told them what we knew, and they asked things they needed to know.
Hannah, the daughter of mine who shuffles to a very rhythmic beat, wanted to know about comfort and care: recliners that had lifting capabilities to help me get up, and pain management options, and nursing services, and whether insurance helped defray costs of things.
Jessica, the daughter of mine who marches to a very rat-a-tat-tat beat, had rat-a-tat-tat thoughts about those things, but she quickly honed in on the steady beat of: When? She needed to know if I had been given a timeframe — was there some sort of death clock we should be watching — were we told WHEN? Keep in mind, Jessica is the daughter who absolutely did not want to know about dates of death when I casually brought up the subject months ago. Her tune changed and she got stuck on a loop —“When? How long? When? … When? How long? When …” she sobbed.
I raised a quizzical brow and pushed all-the-way-in. “I thought you didn’t want to know about death dates.”
“I don’t want to know MY death date, but yours…” She caught herself mid-sentence, turned all guilty-faced, and then fell into the fit of laughter her mother, father, and sister had already begun.
When we gathered ourselves, we rehashed my position on the subject of knowing W.H.E.N. I found my position had changed a tiny bit. Instead of wanting to know when, I wanted and needed assurances that I’d have this Christmas season. I wanted and needed to know that I’d enjoy it and perhaps be feeling as good as I’d been feeling — of course, taking pain and anxiety pills were definitely part of the feeling gooooood part of life.
To be perfectly honest, I had absolutely no idea how effective the pain pill/anxiety pill combo was, until that day — the day I slept through one of my regularly scheduled pill popping events and the pain got ahead of me. Going without a Tramadol, let me know that I’m experiencing a lot more pain, deeper and more prolonged stabs and jabs of pain than I was a few weeks ago. I’d still been feeling discomfort, but I definitely wasn’t feeling ALL of the pain. The realization of how much was going on inside me was really p.a.i.n.f.u.l. — physically and mentally.
The medication mishap really knocked Mr. Wonderful for a loop, too. Every jab and jolt of pain in my leg, or hip, or rib cage, registered on his face and turned my medicine-manager into a hovering-husband. “Maybe if you raise – lower – raise – your recliner. Maybe if I put a towel, a pillow, a soft blanket under your leg. Maybe if you sit further up – or lie flat – or sort of get between the two.”
I pushed this button and that button on the motorized recliner to no avail — he grabbed the pill bottle and read the instructions hoping the label would miraculously change. On occasion he muttered, “One tablet every six hours, as needed for pain.” After several minutes he conceded, “Okay, it’s 3 PM, you just took one, so that should kick in and you can take another at 9.” He watched my flinches, and expressed his frustration with some rapid-fire cussing when the pill didn’t kick in quickly enough, “Son-of-a-bitch. I should have woken you. What the fuck was I thinking letting you rest?”
First, some background. I am the swearer in the family. I find the F-bomb to be very useful, and so long as little ears are out of range, I feel free to launch. I am well aware that there are people who wouldn’t use the F-word if their mouths were full of Fs, and I respect that — but come on, there are times when that word just fits. Tim, on the other hand, manages to muddle through life with infrequent bomb-dropping (unless sparse blades of grass are involved, then all bets are off). Though infrequent, his mouthful of Fs have been dropped on his barren lawn.
On the missing pill day, Mr. Wonderful lobbed his bomb then sat close by my side, groaned with my every stab or jab, then made a managerial decision. He handed me a pain pill at 7 PM. “Here take this. It’s close enough to 9, and I can’t take the pain any longer.”
As soon as I swallowed the pill, we sighed our relief. And when the stabs and jabs were masked by the wonders of Tramadol, I yawned and started watching a Hallmark movie. Tim stood near my carnival-chair, ran his hand across my head, kissed me and promised, “I’ll be back at 1 AM with your next dose.”