What if it's not?

The pain is really bad today.  It's hurt a lot since taking off the bandages, and I only have the smallest 5mg morphine patches left to apply. I’m in too much pain to get in the car to go to the doctor.  I have to wait until after hours so that I can call for a home visit doctor, and I’m not sure that they will get down in prescribing me opioids.

My chest infection won't go away.  It’s been five weeks. It’s making my chest hurt deeper below, and way above the flutter of the stimulator. I'm at 97% of the set parameters of my stimulator, and I'm freaking out a little bit.  I’m crying, and alone, in bed. Although, I s’pose, this is usual. I’m scared, and anxious, dare I say it, fretful.

Fretful, that this is not it.  Fretful, that this is not the answer. Fretful, that the pain is coming back, or that it’s never gone, or that it’s never going away. And that’s not something that I can contemplate.

I’m trying to maintain my lifelong façade of okay. I just can't tell Mum, she's just so, so happy that I'm ‘better’. She’s giddy with delight.  It’s her birthday. She's convinced I'm painfree, and that this is it forever. I'm scared that it's not.

In more depressing news, I discovered last night that I shall never trampoline again.  'Tis a sad day indeed.