I have discovered the medicinal power of a drink.

For the past twelve months I’ve had to play nurse to self and change dressings on a stinking, bloody and disgusting wound. There is no amount of painkillers that has been able to soothe the pain, no treatment or dressing that has been able to heal the gaping wound. 

After suffering for a year the torture of endless pain and even more pain while the nurses at the clinic tore my skin off along with the dressing I decided to change them on my own. No nurse would have the patience to sit and take as long as it takes to pull the dressing off gently. It still hurts like hell, but at least I have control of the pain. And it costs more, as I need to buy all the supplies that otherwise the clinic would have. Nothing takes away the nausea and weakness at the task at hand for someone who never in her life wanted to be a nurse. The sight and the smell of the blood (and other fluids) soaked dressings makes me sick, the sight of the wound that hasn’t healed makes me cry in frustration.

In this hellish world there is a small solace: a shot of framboise, a strong raspberry wine, not too sweet. The wine has worked like magic, never mind dilaudids, oxicontins and other junk, this stuff actually works.  It takes away the queasiness and allows me to go on with what needs to be done (I suppose a shot of whiskey would do the trick as well).

What needs to be done... every night creating more pain that will come in a couple of hours robbing me of another night’s sleep. I just wish it would work for other stuff too. Like the heartache, like the loneliness, like the loss of confidence, hopelessness, and general lows of relying on otherswho don't care, and can’t do much except for keeping me alive. The low of having been unable to work for the past five years and the even worse low of having shut off my brain for the past year in order not to think. Not thinking is the only way of surviving through the endless pain and watching one’s own flesh decay along with everything else that one had considered precious. 

What’s left after watching night after night the reruns of Sex and the City and Cash Cab? What’s left to live for?

Writing…

So cheers to Framboise my friends, and to another torture night!