Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough
Many years ago I had surgery, and you may know, if you've ever had it, that you're not supposed to eat for 12 hours before they cut into you. Something about throwing up in your gas mask, which I believe was the crux of the Paul Newman movie, The Verdict.
Anyway, when I woke up in the recovery room, it was a sudden, wide awake awakening, not at all like waking up in the morning when you're a little groggy and you hit the snooze button on your clock radio so you can, you know, snooze a little more. No, I was wider awake than I could ever remember being, and I was hungry!
"Can I have something to eat, please?" I asked the nurse who had, apparently, been checking on me every five minutes since the surgeon had stitched me up. By way of an answer, she brought me a glass of orange juice, and said that if that stayed down, she would bring me something more substantial.
I was puzzled, but she explained that many people experience nausea upon awakening from surgery. My insistence that I was not one of them fell on deaf ears.
So I drank the orange juice down, then tried to sit up, and that's when the pain hit me. No matter what kind of surgery you have, someone's just cut through your skin with a sharp knife, and if you've ever cut yourself with a sharp knife, or a piece of glass, in more of an unintentional matter, you know just how much that hurts. If you haven't, it's like a really bad paper cut, to the power of ten.
Or twenty.
"I was wondering when you'd notice that," said the nurse. She was prepared for the eventuality, a large syringe in her hand. At that moment my fear of needles didn't even register, the pain was so intense.
"Roll over," she said. And then she proceeded to stick me in a most undignified manner, in a most undignified portion of my body.
Almost immediately, a wave of euphoria spread through my body, its epicentre, the undignified point on my rear end. "Wow," I said, "What was that?"
"Demerol," replied the nurse. It's a painkiller, comes from the same thing they make heroin out of. Enjoy it, that's the only one you're getting."
I enjoyed it, all right. And I realized in that moment why people become addicted to heroin.
Today I heard on the news that Michael Jackson got a shot of Demerol every day, from his private doctor. It explains a lot.
* * *
I was never a big Michael Jackson fan, but I have fond memories of dancing to Don't Stop Til You Get Enough when I was in high school.
Anyway, when I woke up in the recovery room, it was a sudden, wide awake awakening, not at all like waking up in the morning when you're a little groggy and you hit the snooze button on your clock radio so you can, you know, snooze a little more. No, I was wider awake than I could ever remember being, and I was hungry!
"Can I have something to eat, please?" I asked the nurse who had, apparently, been checking on me every five minutes since the surgeon had stitched me up. By way of an answer, she brought me a glass of orange juice, and said that if that stayed down, she would bring me something more substantial.
I was puzzled, but she explained that many people experience nausea upon awakening from surgery. My insistence that I was not one of them fell on deaf ears.
So I drank the orange juice down, then tried to sit up, and that's when the pain hit me. No matter what kind of surgery you have, someone's just cut through your skin with a sharp knife, and if you've ever cut yourself with a sharp knife, or a piece of glass, in more of an unintentional matter, you know just how much that hurts. If you haven't, it's like a really bad paper cut, to the power of ten.
Or twenty.
"I was wondering when you'd notice that," said the nurse. She was prepared for the eventuality, a large syringe in her hand. At that moment my fear of needles didn't even register, the pain was so intense.
"Roll over," she said. And then she proceeded to stick me in a most undignified manner, in a most undignified portion of my body.
Almost immediately, a wave of euphoria spread through my body, its epicentre, the undignified point on my rear end. "Wow," I said, "What was that?"
"Demerol," replied the nurse. It's a painkiller, comes from the same thing they make heroin out of. Enjoy it, that's the only one you're getting."
I enjoyed it, all right. And I realized in that moment why people become addicted to heroin.
Today I heard on the news that Michael Jackson got a shot of Demerol every day, from his private doctor. It explains a lot.
I was never a big Michael Jackson fan, but I have fond memories of dancing to Don't Stop Til You Get Enough when I was in high school.
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