C-2: But They Just Can't Kill The Beast

First published December 29, 2016

I have two knives sticking into my head. The one at the back is horizontal and poking straight through towards the front, just above the strange depression at the base of my neck. The other one enters my temple above my right eye and angles itself diagonally downwards. The two points meet somewhere in the middle of my brain.

The nurses seem to be under the impression I am a waif-like creature because the painkillers they prescribe wouldn’t push a weakened butterfly towards mild drowsiness. 500mg of paracetamol doesn’t come anywhere near what I need. Even with my weight loss I’m pushing 100kg and have, no doubt, developed an advanced degree of paracetamol immunity over the past few years. At least double is called for.

Paracetamol, acetaminophen, Panadol, Tylenol, Depon, Perfalgan, whatever you call it, depending on the style of absorption and the geographical location, it’s all exactly the same, some just cost more than the other. They took me off Tylenol 3 (a combo of acetaminophen, codeine, and caffeine), confiscated my morphine and banned my vodka, then replaced them with some insipid and useless pink and beige tablet. The colors should have given the game away. I mean, how can a pink and beige anything be efficacious?

In other news: Martini managed to get the emergency visa yesterday, but it was too late for yesterday’s flight. We canceled it and re-booked for this morning. She’s boarding in a few minutes, be here late tonight. Nice. No idea when the surgery will be. I guess the surgeons will want to celebrate the New Year but I’ve told them only a little celebrating. If I go weak, they’ll do it straight away.

The steely knives are a weakening force.