On being in pain (The Recovery Series)

I’m lying in my bed. It’s been a while, but I don’t remember pain like this. Even the brilliant drugs that they give you in the hospital doesn’t work. So what best to do with pain but to write. This is my recovery series. It mightn’t make much sense. I blame the pain.

F**k me – it hurts!

A chunk of me is gone. But it was an evil chunk so I’m not really going to miss it. I’m all taped up and I don’t know the size of the incision. The surgery took twice as long than was previously planned because there was twice as much to take out. The alien beings spawned and multiplied, building their little alien colony, planning to invade this new earth called Me. The heroic ‘Bruce Willis’ in a surgical gown flew in on a scalpel and saved mankind. Well, womankind. And like every Bruce Willis movie, it was not without carnage.

The pain is really quite something. And that’s the only way I can describe it. It’s really just…quite…something. If it was a colour, it would be something florescent, and bright, like reflective yellow-orange-green-red. Which is the colour my face turns when the spasms hit me (or would turn if I wasn’t this fetching shade of burnt-caramel). If it was a sound, it would be sledgehammer-traffic-being-scraped-across-a-blackboard combined with something from Phillip Glass. If it were a taste, it would be fennel.

Movement is my enemy. Clothes are my enemy. Air is my enemy. Everything that touches or bounces causes me to turn with sailor-like profanity on my poor cat, whose disdain for me has now turned into a mild amusement as he tries to use the very same pained body area as a scratching post. My beloved has shortened his visits upstairs, for fear that Exorcist-like scenes await him. Or it might be the anti-embolism socks that the after-care nurses, who call me daily, insist I wear because I can’t go dancing around just yet. I tried to plead with them that my life was just as sedentary, or worse, pre-operation. They’re not having any of it. These socks are probably not the least attractive item of clothing that I’ve worn in my lifetime, but they won’t do anything for my love life. Which is for the best right now.

It feels as if they have removed the man-eating cells and replaced it with a ferret. A really angry ferret. A ferret who really loved the outside world, running around with all his ferret friends, having a merry ferret romp, and who is now extremely perplexed and very dissatisfied with this new arrangement of having to live inside of a right boob. I think he wants out of this situation. And he is reneging on his contract in the most physical, claw-y, bite-y manner possible.

There is a lesson in this pain. And I promise I will find it. I just cannot find it right now. I am having a fight with a ferret.

Published in: on February 24, 2013 at 7:55 pm  Leave a Comment  
Tags: , , , , , , ,
%d bloggers like this: