becoming infinite

always learning. always growing. always lifting heavy things.



i was given what’s called a nerve block yesterday, prior to surgery. it’s purpose, obviously, is pain reduction in the first 12-24 hours, by numbing the two major nerves in the leg. when i woke up at 2:30 this morning for my next dose of percocet, my toes were tingling – the first sign that the nere block was wearing off.

at five i woke up again, ninety minutes before my next dose of percocet. the pain was so bad it dragged me out of my sleep. by six i was having full-body convulsions. i thought that maybe getting up would take my mind off the pain until 6:30 rolled around.

standing up was excruciating. crutching the ten feet to the bathroom was excruciating. every last thing made shock waves of pain course through my body.

i was halfway back to my bed, nauseous, shaking, and hyperventilating, when the tears came. i’m not a crier, but first one dropped, and then another. within seconds they were falling like dominoes, a succession that, once started, i was powerless to stop.

i was in and out of fitful sleep for the next ninety minutes. the percocet did nothing to dull the pain, and as i waited for 8:00 and the promise of oxycontin, i lay moaning and crying, tears soaking my pillow and dotting my shirt. occasionally i am mesmerized by my good foot, watching it tremble and spasm as the shudders wrack my body.

my dad called at eight, and although i tried my best, i couldn’t keep it together. ‘dad it hurts so bad,’ i gasped. i know he feels terrible that he can’t be here with me; we both know in the backs of our minds that if my mom were alive, they would have come.

my advisor comes over, and although i can contain my tears, the pain is obvious in my face and in the drum-tight strain of my voice.

the oxycontin has no effect. i take the anti-nausea medication they prescribed. the nurses all told me that it would not only cure the nausea, but completely knock me out. thirty minutes later, i am still nauseous and wide awake.

my alarm rings again at 10:30. more percocet. the nurse calls, and the doctor. i ask them both what the hell is wrong. they tell me that once the nerve block wears off, the body become hyper-sensitive to pain for the first few hours.

i breathe a little easier. i finish my ensure and eat some raisins. i read, and then call to make my physical therapy appointment. when my dad and advisor call again, i sound more human, less panicked. the relief of knowing that it will be okay sets off a chain reaction as the acute pain simultaneously lessens.

it will be okay.
i will be okay.
i’ll run again.
this won’t destroy me.

like dominoes, the goodness falls into place.


Author: jenn

impossible to define; indefinitely impossible. maybe i'll add more here later.

6 thoughts on “dominoes.

  1. I am so sorry you’re having to feel this and be totally lucid through it. I makes me want to clutch my left ankle and right knee just reading it, because almost three years later I can remember that pain. And the fear that something had gone horribly wrong. But they’re being honest, it *will* let up soon.

    • yea i was kind of banking on the medication hazing me out a little bit! alas, i am lucid as can be. which is great because i can read and cross-stitch; for pain, not so great lol.

      • The wolf you cross-stitched for me is on a shelf above my kitchen sink. I looked up at it yesterday, put my finger on the gold feather, and sent some positive vibes your way. I still *ADORE* the wolf! ♥

      • YAY!!! oh i’m so glad!!! : )

  2. Oh hon, I feel for you so much right now. I was reading this and totally making my sympathetic face the whole time. And while I’m painfully aware that I can’t do anything more helpful, I promise I’m making it as sympathetic and… facey… as I can!

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