MY nemesis – aka my left shoulder – was finally repaired two months ago.
Tasks as strenuous as closing the curtains would once again be possible without the agonising clunk that marked yet another dislocation.
Of course, to stop the dislocations and the extreme discomfort you’ve got to bear a little extra pain in the form of surgery.
I wasn’t banking on quite as much though after the anaesthetic had worn off. I was essentially sent home with a box of Smarties for painkillers.
Come bedtime I was in agony and hadn’t the faintest chance of sleeping. My other half ordered some tramadol – a moderately strong analgesic – through an emergency prescription service.
But having necked the maximum permitted dose of said painkillers my shoulder was still throbbing like an over-charged sodium lamp and it was back to A&E.
Few people enjoy staying in hospital but when you’re tanked up on liquid morphine you can have a good time anywhere.
The next two days were a tranquil, ethereal affair as I gently floated in my hospital bed while listening to the fuzzy, dreamy tones of My Bloody Valentine on my Walkman.
Even hospital food – all of it microwaved to destruction – wasn’t so bad under the influence.
So after two days the crippling throb of my former old enemy had dissipated and I was discharged.
Then about a day later, I started feeling abnormally despondent. The world, or at the length and width of my flat, seemed dark and hopeless. My limbs started aching in unison and I found myself struggling to get out of bed.
The trauma of the surgery and general anaesthetic were partly to blame but there was a greater force at work: painkiller withdrawal.
Neither the hospital doctors nor the nurses had warned me about this. Though having heard accounts of heroin addicts in withdrawal, I recognised some of the symptoms. I was going through a minor form of cold turkey!
