So, you gonna die, or what? How long am I gonna lay here stoned out of my mind on pain killers, and listen to your idiot family pronounce you alive?
I’m sure if you could talk, you would tell them all to go scratch. They are sure you are playing favorites, now.
Before I forget, I thought I’d record for posterity what was instilled into my system during my hospital visit in February. Sure beats the past, when a swig of whiskey settled the issue for a poor patient.
I won’t list the medications themselves. Just the side effects. This is an amazing review!
I feel sorry for the medical staff, should even one of these symptoms arise. Or a couple. Actually, I didn’t have any of these side effects, at least that I remember, except there was one point where my ears did ring. I remember thinking “how do you actually pronounce ‘tinnitus’.” It was a hoot. No, more l ike a trill, don’t mind the pun.
Bear in mind, during the whole ingestion process, I was immobilized and unable to see much else than the ceiling or the curtain separating me from Shirley, as she continued her steady decline into helpless morbidity. When you are constrained to lying flat on your back for endless hours, the administration of those agents is actually a diversion, at least for me. Waiting for each episode of calmness, or sleepiness was a blessing during that stressful time.
Glad to be home. Not on most of these pharmaceuticals any more, and thinking a little more clear-headed. Hence, this blog. My advice – just be strong, and know it will pass. Or, as I said to my angels watching over me – you had my back!
Can you believe that one of Shirley’s sons actually stood there and told the crowd gathered on the other side of the curtain that he is actually a malpractice lawyer and not to tell anyone?
Oh, if only my mouth would work. My eyes are unfocused. My ears are ringing (as per side-effect listed elsewhere). My hair is having a bad day.
I would out you, Carl or whatever your name is. You are a bloated boastful invisible gadfly. Just one more side-effect that will eventually fade. Like Shirley.
It’s getting dark. All systems go. Shots administered, dinner over and smelly leftovers removed. All is at peace. Quiet at last.
Until the family returns. Shirley has been rejoined by her clan, who pile into her room like lemmings jumping over a cliff. They station themselves around her, and someone announces “This is Father Joe.”
This wakes me up. Alert, what is going on now over there? Soon it becomes evident that F.J. the man in the black dress, is prepping for an operation not of this earth. I hear the intonations of casting a spell to make Shirley more presentable to her Maker. I hear the amens and the Latin supplications.
Apparently, Shirley is in pretty bad shape.Notwithstanding her son leaning over into my half of the room and advising me that he had had these prayers said over him over 40 years ago and look, he is still here. I guess he saw the panic in my eyes.
If Shirley got these last rites, or extreme unction, or as I would call it – family paranoia that the Devil hisself is a’ comin’ to claim her soul tonight, she must be pretty darn near Death’s door. In fact, I can smell and sense Death lurking just outside my fifth floor window, beyond the lovely scenery of the park and mansions across the river. This is not good. I can’t very well avoid the sound and aura of the man in black mumbling away stuff that should have been left in the ancient texts from whence it came.
As a good ex-Catholic girl, there is a limit to my annoyance. Let her have her sad, morbid joke at my expense. The family seems oblivious that there is a person not 10 feet away, who is under the influence of no less than that many agents, who is getting the wrong impression.
Research reveals that extreme unction, while good for the purposes of the dying, is actually just a precaution. It will heal the soul, erase the sins that are accumulated there, to make the soul acceptable for entrance into Heaven. But this is all psycho-bullshit to me, and I’m scared silly that Shirley’s ghost will thrust aside that curtain once the family exits to go to their dinner, and castigate me for not enjoying her sacramental hiatus.
A few therapeutic hours, time passed, a new day beginning, and Shirley and her family are still there. What exciting sacrament or ritualistic paranoia will come up now that Shirley has survived her ticket to Heaven? Only time and several more shots of morphine will tell.
During my recent hospital stay and current recovery from herniated disk surgery, I have practiced some precautions.
It is very hard to have to obey someone who only knows you through an x-ray or peeking into your insides with a tiny camera. I have been attempting to remain in alignment. No, not mental or spiritual alignment, but in a way not to twist my spine in any way shape or form. So I thought how much fun it is to move around, freely.
Put away the records. There will be no twisting until further notice. No Yoga, no tai chi, no practice other than to shove a big pillow between my legs and lie on my side to watch TV. This is no fun. I like to stretch. I like Yoga positions and challenging myself to balance perfectly in tai chi.
Nor can I drive. I can ride in a car, though. I can walk around the block. Once. But I can’t sustain long drives to and from Toms River every time Dad’s breathing pattern changes. Dad! I’m on restricted duty here. I can’t describe how uncomfortable it is at the end of a normal day. Even sitting around all day watching Dark Shadows on Netflix gets tired after a while.
