Pain is oppressive. It colors every hour. It becomes hard to hold a thought or to do any creative work. I'm working on something, forming an idea, then another wave of pain breaks. When it passes I grope around for the nascent idea and it is gone, washed away. I count the hours until I can take the next dose of the so-called “pain-killers.” “Pain-dullers” would be more accurate. I'm still glad to have them. It's better than yesterday, standing in a crowded trolley, seeing my reflection in the window through slitted eyes, grimacing back at me. When I am finally alone I indulge in a shout, and an occasional moan.
Vigorous physical activity helps. Stress helps. Bashing my fist into a wall helps. Is it adrenaline? Endorphins? I'll ask my doctor when I next see him, assuming I can remember this thought. By then, I hope, the question will be academic. I should feel the effects of the antibiotic in a couple of days. Pray let it be so. I don't think I want much more of this.
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