Morphine musings by Trevor Plumbly
Prior to my recent hospital visit, my experience with drugs was limited to malt whisky and strong beer. Whilst not generally accepted as clinical pain relievers, they didn’t do a bad job when the old Plumbly spirit level dropped a bit. To be fair to the medical profession, these liquid lifelines largely eased emotional wounds rather than physical pain.
I’ve always held a mild distrust of tablets, to me they just don’t add up: there you are, writhing in pain, up pops Doc and slips you something about the size of a pinhead, and bingo, next thing you know you’re skipping around like Muhammed Ali. Something that good should come with clockwork cheerleaders.
…that’s what I thought when they mentioned morphine. I’d read all about the stuff and reckoned a couple of doses would turn the old creative juices into a raging torrent, but the beat poets and lyricists must have got all the good gear years ago, or been blessed with more convoluted thought processors. I did get a few odd visions but nothing I could pass on as poetically life changing. A flaxen haired girl constantly circled my bed, no mean task when one end was up against a wall, the two large dogs remained in the corner throughout, silent and unmoving while the wall opposite was covered in longhand unreadable scrawl. I’ve struggled to find something meaningful or poetic in that to pass on, but I’ve given up; if you can decipher it, be my guest.
What goes up!
Home again and back to the Doc and it’s time to part company with the morphine. I can’t say I’m sad about it; it did kill the pain, but definitely didn’t transport me into new worlds of enlightenment and, quite frankly, it got a bit boring waiting for the old one to make room for drug induced tranquillity. Every day the fistful of pills grows less, so in order to maintain the balance of therapeutic input, I sup the odd beer to assist rehydration and sip a glass or two of red to promote digestion and calm the crushed nerves that caused the problem in the first place. Precisely at 5 pm, I shall raise a glass and wish you ‘Good Health!’ I reckon I’m getting there. From the porch, ‘Cheers!’ Trevor.
Welcome back, old boy, your friendly decipherment expert here: The flaxen haired girl and the two large dogs work for a Sicilian debt collection agency; the unreadable scrawl says ‘pay bruvsy or burn in hell’ …
I thought I was the one with drug induced hallucinations, T.
So glad you’re up and at ’em again Trevor, and Happy and Healthy 2017 to you and Pam.
Hi Marge! Thanks so much for the good wishes, believe me they do make a difference. Shall we see you in NZ this year? Special thoughts, Trevor.
Best wishes Trev.
Hi Petra, lovely to hear from you, Stay tuned, Trev