"Suffering is optional"
This is another one about my upcoming hip replacement; so if you've had enough, feel free to move on.
One week to go. Had my first pre-op visit yesterday—mostly administrative details: who will drive me home, how many stairs in my house, bathtub or shower. A thorough thumping, pressing, and prodding by the surgeon's assistant—a sweet young man with limpid brown eyes (I've always wanted to use the word "limpid"). He gently opened the issue of patient directives and read through a form that would allow the OR team to use emergency measures to bring me back from an unforeseen trip to the gray side. Seems as though they need my permission beforehand—which I quickly gave.
The next nurse thumped a bit more aggressively and laid down the latest of the dos and don'ts. Do drink plenty of liquids, do take iron pills (along with a partner designed to avoid nasty bowel problems), and Vitamin C. Don't take any more Ibuprofen products—oh oh. Costco ibuprofen is my buddy and gets me through the rough spots. But today I went cold turkey—until about noon.
The PA also suggested that my primary care physician could prescribe a stronger pain blocker. So I emailed her and picked up a script for 20 tabs. I was relieved but felt a bit uneasy with my new vial of OxyContin—top of the list, it seems, of abused prescription drugs. The doctor gave me just a few pills to see me through. Although relief is immediate, it is also short-lived and comes with side affects of a personal nature: itchiness, brain fog, the ability to nod off at will, and an internal combustion system that borders on stubborn. But after a long day of counting the number of steps from one place to another, the four-hour respite is welcome. I have renewed empathy for those who find themselves unintentionally on the wrong side of the war on drugs.
Years ago, after a restaurant burn incident, I spent a few weeks in the hospital with measured doses of Demerol readily available. The sous-chef I worked for came to visit and warned me to be careful about the extended use of such a powerful opiate. I casually mentioned this concern to my doctor when he came in for his morning visit. After lunch of green Jello, a meat patty of uncertain origin, Tapioca, and macaroni & cheese I waited patiently for the next click in my afternoon routine—a few hours of drug-induced fog. The pain never completely went away, but it retreated.
No one came. By naptime, I grew a bit restive and buttoned for the nurse. She breezed in, "What do you need".
"Isn't it time for my medication?"
"No, your doctor said that you wanted to discontinue the pain medication."
"Just a thought—not a decision!"
It took hours and many calls to track down that darn doctor before my "decision" could be reversed. I soon went home without the aid of pain-reducing drugs and never had any desire to slip over to the dark side. But the experience did give me a better understanding of how someone faced with endless hours of discomfort can look forward to a few hours of solace.
I've been reading Haruki Murakami's book, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. Mr. Murakami, a Japanese novelist and marathon runner, writes cool mysterious novels about sadness and modern boredom. In the book's forward he describes lying in a hotel room in Paris, reading a special article on an upcoming Paris marathon. "There were interviews with several famous runners and they were asked what mantra goes through their head to keep them pumped during a race. One runner told of a mantra his older brother taught him which he's pondered ever since he began running. Here it is: Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional."
Good enough to get me through the next couple weeks.
One week to go. Had my first pre-op visit yesterday—mostly administrative details: who will drive me home, how many stairs in my house, bathtub or shower. A thorough thumping, pressing, and prodding by the surgeon's assistant—a sweet young man with limpid brown eyes (I've always wanted to use the word "limpid"). He gently opened the issue of patient directives and read through a form that would allow the OR team to use emergency measures to bring me back from an unforeseen trip to the gray side. Seems as though they need my permission beforehand—which I quickly gave.
The next nurse thumped a bit more aggressively and laid down the latest of the dos and don'ts. Do drink plenty of liquids, do take iron pills (along with a partner designed to avoid nasty bowel problems), and Vitamin C. Don't take any more Ibuprofen products—oh oh. Costco ibuprofen is my buddy and gets me through the rough spots. But today I went cold turkey—until about noon.
The PA also suggested that my primary care physician could prescribe a stronger pain blocker. So I emailed her and picked up a script for 20 tabs. I was relieved but felt a bit uneasy with my new vial of OxyContin—top of the list, it seems, of abused prescription drugs. The doctor gave me just a few pills to see me through. Although relief is immediate, it is also short-lived and comes with side affects of a personal nature: itchiness, brain fog, the ability to nod off at will, and an internal combustion system that borders on stubborn. But after a long day of counting the number of steps from one place to another, the four-hour respite is welcome. I have renewed empathy for those who find themselves unintentionally on the wrong side of the war on drugs.
Years ago, after a restaurant burn incident, I spent a few weeks in the hospital with measured doses of Demerol readily available. The sous-chef I worked for came to visit and warned me to be careful about the extended use of such a powerful opiate. I casually mentioned this concern to my doctor when he came in for his morning visit. After lunch of green Jello, a meat patty of uncertain origin, Tapioca, and macaroni & cheese I waited patiently for the next click in my afternoon routine—a few hours of drug-induced fog. The pain never completely went away, but it retreated.
No one came. By naptime, I grew a bit restive and buttoned for the nurse. She breezed in, "What do you need".
"Isn't it time for my medication?"
"No, your doctor said that you wanted to discontinue the pain medication."
"Just a thought—not a decision!"
It took hours and many calls to track down that darn doctor before my "decision" could be reversed. I soon went home without the aid of pain-reducing drugs and never had any desire to slip over to the dark side. But the experience did give me a better understanding of how someone faced with endless hours of discomfort can look forward to a few hours of solace.
I've been reading Haruki Murakami's book, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. Mr. Murakami, a Japanese novelist and marathon runner, writes cool mysterious novels about sadness and modern boredom. In the book's forward he describes lying in a hotel room in Paris, reading a special article on an upcoming Paris marathon. "There were interviews with several famous runners and they were asked what mantra goes through their head to keep them pumped during a race. One runner told of a mantra his older brother taught him which he's pondered ever since he began running. Here it is: Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional."
Good enough to get me through the next couple weeks.
Wow, glad to hear you still have your sense about you, even going thru he**. Take care, and the girls say "HI!"
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