rhapsodic.org

I don't do pills

Last night was the pain, yes.

When I got home, B was in the shower. I lied on the bathroom mat, on the floor, and chatted with him through our frog curtain about our respective days at work. And the pain.

I chose the floor over the counter or the toilet (with closed lid) because it was cool and hard and I could curl into a fetal position, making my uterus feel better. As it turned out, that position was one not favored by my hip.

My hip! My hip! I cried as I rolled back and forth, stuck between the wall on my left and the toilet on my right.

Embarrassingly in an old-lady sort of way, B had to help me up. And then force-fed me a Flexeril, one of his pills left over from when he was broken.

And as nice and tiny that wonder drug was, it didn't do Jack Dandy. I hobbled to and from the store, clutching my lower abdomen and favoring my old-lady hip. No happy-happy, no less pain, no sleepiness. Nothing.

Before I went to bed he pulled out the big guns, his One True Love: a Vicodin pill. He waxed poetic about its happy-happy happiness and made sure I realized the Great Sacrifice he was making in letting me have one.

Yeah yeah yeah, hand it over.

He pulled out this... pill. As big as an f'ing horse, it was. A Clydesdale. And uncoated, no less. I had to taste this bitter horse for three days as it moseyed down my throat with five glasses of water. Get along, you f'n horse of a doggie.

But, you know what happened?
The wonderful, lovely thing that happened?
Happy-happy.
Bye-bye pain.
And the sleepy-sleepy.

After half an hour I could no longer keep my eyes open, and I woke feeling completely rested this morning. It was so lovely.

I'll let you know when I find his stash, but don't even think about asking me to share.