It was an entertaining Saturday. After assisting the ex with her Avios account and pension planning I headed off with Chris to Wetherspoons for their large breakfast. It proved to be a good investment as we returned later to have a very cheap small tea to top up the morning’s excessive calorific intake.
Both experiences involved Chris telling me to speak up. Deaf as a post I feared being heard to shout in a public place. And overcompensated reducing my volume to an incomprehensible whisper. Frustrating for both of us I think.
The football brought the desired result. A 3-1 win over local rivals Rochdale in a game that looked to be heading for a draw until the Ginger Aguero, Eoin Doyle, scored two late goals including a piece of beauty to wrap up the scoring!
Back home and I figured on an early night. Four days post zometa treatment wrecked me four weeks earlier. I figured on getting in a few early hours sleep before extreme pain hit me again. And five hours after nodding off, in the early hours of Sunday morning, I awoke.
My drugs were lined up alongside me. I’d already taken a naproxen to quieten my one remaining tumour related buttock discomfort. Paracetamol, quick hit oral morphine and slow release morphine tablets sat alongside my bed. As well as the olive oil drops for my bungee up ears!
A key preventative measure to avoid having to rummage through my multiple pharmacy bags in the dark.
But the agony just didn’t return. Maybe it’s waiting for another moment to hammer me hard. Maybe I’m resistant to zometa pain after the first dose last month.
I returned to the relative comfort of sleep and despite some strange dreams probably got a good nine hours either side of the interruption.
All is good. But I’m pretty sure that niggling buttock feeling will eventually finish me off. Not for some time hopefully.