OK, the grim reality of next week is starting to bore into my head. I’m going to look after my mother until next Friday while she has the fallout from her final bout of chemotherapy. Not something anyone wants to have to do, much as I emotionally owe her. AND I’ve just had a quick count up and found out I’ll be out of meds by Tuesday evening. That means no pregabalin, no codeine from Wednesday until possibly the following Monday – depending if my five and a half hour train journey gets me back before my Doctors closes. I can’t say I laughed when I realised, because what I did actually do was throw what tablets I do have across the room and start shouting ‘You fucking idiot,’
There is no way of getting the tablets today – I’ve checked – so I’m wracking my brains to see what plan B I can come up with.
- Buy over the counter Co-Codamol and step around the fringes of a paracetamol overdose for a week – The poxy 7.5mg of codeine is accompanied, by some cruel joke wrongly aimed at preventing a whole nation of opiate addicts, by 500mg of paracetamol in each tablet. There is no way of even cold filtering out the paracetamol. Helloooo liver failure..
- Scrimp on the meds – savagely cut down my dosages and pray I can get back on the shitty Rail service before four PM next Friday.
- Take lots of diazepam (which I have) with me and provide a very ineffectual week of caring to my Mother.
- Start taking my anti-psychotics again – at least I won’t get angry while I’m withdrawing.
It’s a menu of hate whichever way I look at it.
With cup of Early Grey teas in hand, I raise my tin mug to you all, and to a week of good fortune and of comfort and usefulness to my Mother. She is beyond my shitty mental health and I’m determined not to let her become the victim of my own poor planning.
Some people mock those on heavy medication, I was never one of those who sneered but now I can see people have a point. It’s hard to care for others when your bones feel like they are trying to leave your rotting body. Meds are not to be fooled with, or taken for granted. O Lord, grant me one last stroke of luck in my miserable life. Help me out just once. We both know it’s about fucking time.
To the future. And to my religious conversion, which may or may not occur in a blinding flash of opiate bliss and righteous doses of serotonin. See you in Church.