Valley of The Dolls

Last Monday I aggravated my sciatic nerve with five hours of seemingly benign bending and light lifting around the warehouse. Twenty-four hours after picking, packing and shipping, my back shut down from my shoulder blades to well below my knees. I've suffered this debilitating injury before. Meds and bed rest generally stave off the misery, and in two or three days I'm back in business. This time, however, I was laid up for nearly a week. To extract what felt like a ghurka knife being twisted in my coccyx, I deployed a pharmaceutical juggernaut that included Naproxen, Vicodin and Morphine.

I'm not a big pill popper, but I enjoy staring at the ceiling with a dog's ass on my pillow even less. Willis showed mercy during my convalescence, but he's still a dog, which means he needed my help attaching the collar, turning the door knob and walking outside to defecate how and where house pets are expected to. My friend Bill helped considerably in this matter, and gave Willis real walks when he wasn't delivering me the aforementioned real pills.

About those pills. I've been afraid of Vicodin's narcotic effect ever since my friend The Red Cowboy shit in the linen closet at my ex-girlfriend's house on a Kahlua and M357 bender. Naproxen is generic for some anti-inflammatory pain medication or the other, and the haze it lazes across my brain is mainly plain and never a pain. Morphine is the one that really scares me, but only because I've been convinced (correctly or otherwise) that its opiates are so addictive. Given these fears, I did what any health-conscious middle-aged man would do.

I took two each of all three every six hours since last Thursday.

I will finish this blog as soon as the furry purple banana that moved into my spare bedroom gives me back my hands.

Isn't medical science amazing?

Valley of The Dolls