No Place to Hide?

So here’s my question for tonight : Where does your subconscious go to play when your dreams become logical?

It seems that a certain ennui has slid in on a silent tide. While I wasn’t watching, focusing on keeping sane and civil to people who only just barely deserve that respect (they sure as shit haven’t earned it yet!), it would appear that my mind has made up it’s mind on the matter.

Today was another tiny pebble in the gelid avalanche of self-centred mistakes that’s been rolling down the hill in SuperSloMotion™. Maybe that’s what’s set off the klaxon in there – I know it pissed me off no end to find that the pain management specialist I was relying on to update the intrathecal analgaesic “forgot” to remember to order the sufentanil, as we discussed mano-a-mano six weeks ago. So instead, he switched to not-thinking-mode and ordered a big ol’ batch of pethedine, a substance that’s not only 8,000 times less potent than the sufenta, but that I’ve told him repeatedly (and nicely – is that my problem?) does. not. work. for. my. pain. management. Period.

It didn’t help that, when I mentioned waiting for six weeks to get this appointment (the six week figure was what his secretary informed me her pet specialist was taking – as a break to “refresh and revitalise” – when I made this appointment six weeks ago to the day), the specialist looked surprised and informed us that he’d only taken just over 2 weeks off, and never intended to have six weeks! So there I was, looking stupid and whiny. After all, if I could wait 4 weeks after he returned from his six-week (oops, sorry, two-week) break, I couldn’t possibly have a medical condition worthy of his time, could I?

There’s four weeks of hell and more that I really could have done without. Thanks, secretary, for making sure your pet pain specialist didn’t have nasty needy patients interfering with his day job. I guess that’s another two pebbles in the landslide, huh?

Not that it bothered Jan or Barry. They don’t have a clue what their patients are going through. At least, not in a way that makes a difference to the aforesaid patients.

Is it wrong for me to wish my pain on their spines, for a day, a week, a month, a year? No, but it’s wishful thinking. Ah well.

No, I’m not making this shit up.

I know my Wingless Angel is frustrated for and by me… She’s frustrated for me because she knows I’m not making this shit up, and she can see the self-centred “I couldn’t give a Sprague-Dawley rat’s arse” attitude on people we trust NOT to have that perspective, and I don’t blame her for that. I should have shouted and made a “scene”, which would have got an answer much quicker, I suppose.

And she’s frustrated by me, because she doesn’t truly understand that if I let that particular genie out of the bottle, I’d have a lot of trouble getting it back in. Suppressing? You betcha. It’s the only tool I have left to deal with these people.

See, the problem is, the avalanche metaphor is understated if anything. So if I rage and spit and scream at these two nincompoops, I’d have to rage and spit and scream at everyone who make our lives that much more difficult. e.g.

  • The Pharmacist who closes up shop an hour early every now and then, so customers have to wait another day to pick up their prescriptions, and who never works Saturdays or Sundays because he doesn’t make enough money.
  • Or The Other Secretary, who sends out “thank you for paying” notes instead of receipts, so patients can’t claim the incredibly high fees billed by Messrs. Muir and Courtney (yeah, The Butcher), and who then refuses to answer the phone, and then deletes all her messages at the end of the day, whether she’s answered them or not.
  • Or both New and Old Secretaries, who can’t get their acts together to send patient histories to the referred specialist, because the Old One can’t be bothered to do the legal thing, and the New One just can’t be bothered to remember to call the Old One because she’s a nasty, bitter old lady.
  • Or the Old Friend who can’t be fagged responding to emails, because he’s promised something he’d rather not keep – after all, he does live more than 40 minutes away by supercar.
  • Or the Morally Upright Eldest Daughter, who stridently demanded (and cunningly sought) to attend family functions, after her ex-husband’s sexual predations (and her tacit knowledge of those predations) were outed by his victims, all related to her. Unfortunately, while those victims are free to attend those fun-filled family get-togethers, that’s not likely to happen, because the  Eldest Daughter now lives “in sin” with, and insists on bringing along to those family functions, her current sex partner – who is her ex-husband’s  identical twin brother. Creepy or what?
  • Or the Confused Grandmother, who much prefers to sit down and chat and laugh with the Eldest Daughter and the paedophile’s identical twin brother, instead of with her psychologically devastated grandchildren. That really makes it difficult to keep the genie in the bottle, doesn’t it?

I did tell you I wasn’t making this stuff up.

No, I’d just have to yell at all of these morons. And you know, with the monkey on my back, the tinnitus that’s now past the point where I can’t hear the rain any more – or cicadas (which is actually a bonus), the non-working intrathecal pump that The Butcher misplaced so it’s now sliding down into my armpit, the incredibly useful neural stimulator that’s unbelievably painful to recharge, the customer work that I can’t begin to start until my pain management improves (and that I can’t give to anyone else because no-one else wants to do that kind of work any more), I just can’t raise the energy.

Perhaps that’s why my dreams are losing their oomph. Or – and this is just a guess – it could be because I’m once again coming off an opiate that doesn’t really work. Mind you, I’ll start taking it again, because it’s better than a poke in the eye with a burnt stick. And then I’ll stop again, because the world crashes in on me when I get those Opioid Blues…

So later today (it’s quarter to five am again) I’ll snatch a couple of hours’ exhausted sleep, then with a cup of coffee and four or five dextropropoxyphene tabs and a couple of hydromorphone slow release nuggets easing the physical pain, and the duloxetine and my own constitution masking the mental fry-up, I’ll try rewinding my Gauss gun coil and see if I can get my kilojoule of energy into the projectile so I can flog the damn thing to the army.

Should be a good day! Better than the last few, anyway! Onward and upwards!

Keep your head above water – and don’t forget to breathe. – Rob Thomas

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