She re-enters the room, Relief in her hand. A steady snare drum beats in my temple. A bass pedal, matched to my heart, throbs in my hips. My jaw does its own thing, oblivious to the rythm of pain elsewhere in my body.
I watch as she connects the syringe to my IV line, and wait as she injects it, small section – wait, small section – wait. Thump Thump goes my heart. Ow ow goes my body.
She finishes. I wait.
Time passes. Nothing happens. I worry that I’ve developed too much of a tolerance. I worry that it’s not going to work. I worry that this time, the one thing that seems to provide some sort of release from the pain no longer works. I try to relax.
A shudder runs through my body. I feel my thoughts coalesce in my heart, and my heart thumps. Limbs grow heavy and start to pulse. The pain loses its meaning. I lose my meaning. I am lost.
The drug shudders its way through my blood stream, shutting things off, deadening nerves, and finally causing angry parts to just shut the hell up already.
The fucked up part starts soon.
Images flash before my eyes. Bad scenarios. Hated scenarios. Frightful things. The line between real and dream blurs, distorts, reverses. I wonder afterwards if I talk, because I have conversations in my head. I worry, because some times these conversations make sense to me. Which is troublesome, because I truly believe that in those moments, I am insane. I wonder if sanity has any meaning in the depths of a dilaudid sleep-coma.
Not truly sleeping, not truly awake, you lay and wait for the initial storm to pass, and when it does, you turn your inner eye around to look, wondering if its devastation or wonder in its path.
Finally, some peace and quiet.
I wake up. I look at the clock. 3:15. Only 2 and a half hours have passed since she first injected the dilaudid, and the drums are beginning their steady beat once more.
I no longer wonder how people get addicted to pain killers. I close my eyes and wait.