Post 111: The pain is just bearable.
Chronic pain is something other people have—
until now.
———
My mother-that-didn’t-give-birth-to-me, Peta, arrived on time today and stayed for a few hours, chatting and catching up.
I sat in the comfy rocker, facing her from the shade of the conservatory. It was a hot, sunny day—and why shouldn’t we just soak it up?
She’s always called me “the son I never gave birth to,” a surrogate son to a surrogate Mum. I was always there, beside her and “Dad” (my surrogate Dad, Vic), and as the years passed, they became a cornerstone of my life.
From the age of 14 (until now), they stepped in during a strange time. My real mum was miles away, paid to care for other people’s kids in the mansions of Berkshire. Big Sis was in a flat with her new bloke and soon to be Bro-in-law, and I—technically a guardian to Little Bro, though more financially than parentally—was mostly left to it. My dad was a hard-working postman obsessed with his garden and anything steam-powered, but not so much with anything else.
So I was, whenever I could be, elsewhere.
Mostly with my surrogate family.
Peta’s getting older now—but you wouldn’t know it.
“Nearly 79” is a joke—she acts and looks twenty years younger.
We lost Vic just over a year ago. They were teenage sweethearts, separated in the end by illness, but memories remain. And now, she seems to be mending.
She brought runner beans—my all-time favourite veg—plus a bag of wee tomatoes, and a homemade lemon drizzle loaf so dense it could anchor a warship. My own slice of Heaven.
Big hugs, multiple cups of tea, and lots of chat later, she was gone, and the house was quiet again.
Seeing her was just… fabulous.
I’ll save some of the stories for another time. I want to keep today’s visit fresh in my mind for now.
———
My back had been a mess over the weekend, and it wasn’t any better today.
I filled out the Anima form about the acute pain first thing, and within an hour, the phone rang with my Dr asking the questions.
(Incidentally, Peta was on her way; yes the blog is not chronological, I’m jumping the timeline around—I didn’t want to start this post with groaning and grumbling.)
The doctor on the line asked me what was up. I told him.
“Morphine patches—how do you feel about those?” He asked.
Oramorph?
“Or we could double your Gabapentin.”
All valid options.
But I don’t want to be dependent on opiates. Not yet. Not unless I have to.
Yes, I know I’m already on that slippery slope—the one where cancer keeps pushing and pain relief keeps chasing—but I’m not ready for all that crap yet.
(Sorry. But “crap” doesn’t cover it. This is shit.)
I agreed to oramorph.
The doctor said, “I’ll get that done,” and the call ended.
I hope that’ll be ready tomorrow, fingers crossed.
———
After our visitor left, my ever-attentive and loving Darling was ready to get back into Love in the Kitchen, the series we’re now nearly at the end of.
The drama played out, and (spoiler alert
️) the leading man got his girl in the end.
We had dinner and lounged some more. But by the time I got tired, my back was back—this time with aches around my shoulder blades. A new trick to have to cope with. Cancerous lesions are as cunning as a fox and my body is a one legged chicken with a target on its arse.
“Bedtime” she said.
And off I went happily and sleepily -until I tried to lay down. The new aches made it hard to find a position to sleep in, and by the time I did, tears had snuck out of my eyes.
My Darling wasn’t far behind me getting to bed, so she saw me lying there, snivelling.
I’d found a position I could bear—but it wasn’t natural. It wasn’t restful.
And I hated myself in that moment for being the kind of old grump who only talks about how much he hurts, needing everyone’s sympathy.
A big soft cuddle was given to me from the warm embrace of my Darling and I drifted off to sleep.
But…
I’m not ready.
That’s not me.
I’m not going to be the guy bedridden and fading with cancer.
Not yet!
I want to be free from this nightmare.
This unimagined life of pain and drugs and slow-motion decline—
But it’s real.
And today, it was too real.
If I could sleep standing up, I would.
Lying down feels like a battle I can’t win.
I woke up a few times overnight, as My Darling slept beside me.
I woke with weird dreams about work, and jobs, and tapping up an old engineering shop owner for a role.
That’s a blinkin’ laugh.
The idea that I could go to work somewhere new.
I’ve got decades of experience, sure, but I’ve got no strength now.
There’s no release from cancer for good behaviour.
No prospect of being anything but… a burden.
But it’s not funny.
Not at all.
I’m struggling.
This cancer is progressing.
And I don’t know how to process the speed of it, just in this last week.
The MRI results will cheer me up.
The Bus is still on course.
Everyone around me is positive, and supportive.
Please let that prescription for oramorph be ready today.
And maybe—just maybe—I can, for a while, be me.
PS
The image is the chemical symbol for Morphine
