I should have taken that pain pill last night.
I’m trying to cut back because the last thing I need is another addiction. But my leg punished me for that decision all night. Several times, I wished it simply wasn’t there.
But it is.
As the sun came up, I finally pressed the call button beside my bed. I rarely use it, but by then I would have traded almost anything for a pain pill and a cup of black coffee.
A young aide came in, took my request, and passed it along to the nurse.
About half an hour later, breakfast arrived with coffee—cream and sugar already in it.
I can’t drink that shit, and I’ve told them before.
I asked about the pain pill.
“I told the nurse,” she said.
I’m not complaining about The Pillars. They have taken good care of me, and I appreciate it.
But halfway through breakfast, in came my medications and another big needle headed for my stomach.
“What are those shots for?” I asked.
“To prevent blood clots.”
Good reason.
Still a lousy place for a needle.
So there I sat, eating breakfast with a leg that felt half dead and a stomach sore from another injection, watching Invest 91L organize itself over the Gulf.
The forecasters say it may become a tropical depression and bring heavy rain to the northern Gulf Coast. If it grows strong enough to earn a name, it will become Bertha.
Of course.
My metal-removal surgery is Wednesday.
I turn eighty the next day.
Pain pills. Bad coffee. Stomach shots. Surgery. A possible tropical storm.
Lovely…
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