More drugs, please

It turns out that the pump that was sending marocaine into the incision site was doing me some good after all.

How do I know this?

Because the process of removing the three inch catheter that had been stabbing me in the belly was only slightly excruciating. Most of the area was pretty numb.

After it was removed, the numbness faded, to be replaced by the kind of feeling you get after someone extinguishes a cigar onto your inner thigh. Not a little cigarillo, either. One of those big, thick Churchills, the kind with a glowing cherry end as big around as a quarter.

Gosh, I miss that huge needle, with it's slow drip of modern medicine.

Today has been a bad day.


  1. Sounds excruciating. Remember to breathe and take it easy. Hope you're pouring this pain into some angry writing!

  2. Hope you're pouring this pain into some angry writing!

    Pain makes me sad and tired. If I'm able to write, if I'm not too tired, the only kind of writing that comes out of me when I'm sad is blippy and really funny. It's a way of masking the pain, see? Forcing it into an alchemists vat and turning dross back into gold... or something that looks like gold.

    But if it something is in every way indistinguishable from gold, then it's just as good as gold, right?

  3. I guess if it's fool's gold then it will be funny! Sad or not the writer may be.

  4. Hugs babycakes. It's not as good as morphine, but hugs any way... Peace, Linda


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