Fio's Road to Damascus

Put on your waders.  Fio is going deep.

I think she told you about the problems she had with meds after her hip operation.  The hydrocodone, which had never previously given her anything but pain relief, caused disorientation and hallucinations.  Maybe it was the strength of the pills--four times what she was accustomed to--or maybe it was the oxycontin added on top of them, but nothing made sense to her. Everything was random, everything threatening--cause and effect didn't exist.    Fiorella didn't know how to cope with a scenario like this, and she didn't want to exist in a world like this.  There was no balance, no God.

Yesterday Fio peeked back at those dark days and was overwhelmed by a wave of desolation.  Then suddenly she realized that scientific research has proved her hallucinations wrong, that everything does make sense, that all things relate, that there is order in the universe.

That there is a God. 
 

Random Observations

Fio's been cleaning up the house lately in prep for surgery next week, and most of her clean-up has involved the tons of notes she's written since time eternal, some of the random wit and wisdom of which she will now regale you with:

Finally getting an agent is like learning there really is a Santa Claus.

I put off getting writing because I know that once I start, I can't stop.

I don't understand why doctirs are so particular about prescribing hydrocodone.  I've been taking it for years and never gotten addicted.

Wouldn't it have been better if Loughner had been forcibly medicated BEFORE he shot those people in Arizona?

When it's between people, it's etiquette.  When it's between nations, it's protocol.

 

Medical Snippets

Latest news from the Indy 500, also known as HEB--Fiorella's motorized cart rocked a wine display at the store yesterday. The bottles clinked, but didn't fall; however, three minutes later Fio did manage to take out a couple of rolls of wrapping paper on an end display. Husband wants to affix a sign reading "Hot Wheels" to her cart, but Fio prefers "Greased Lightning."
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When Fio takes hydrocodone, she still feels the pain, but doesn't care. When she takes Lyrica, she feels no pain at all, which raises an existential question: where does the pain go?
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Fio is considering buying a second cane which will better coordinate with her wardrobe. Ah, vanity--thy name is Fiorella.

Mixed Bag

The thunderstorm last night was scary, but, on the other hand, it rained. The skittish armadillo hasn't been caught yet, but yesterday a bigger, fatter one wandered into the trap (number eight). Fiorella's hip still hurts, but her eye has healed. Last, but not least, Fiorella is so high on painkillers that she can't even remember her last name, but why should she care?

And Leap Tall Buildings in a Single Bound

2:00 a.m. and Fio woke up feeling great, freed from her rind of headache and depression by the paring knife of hydrocodone. The future looked bright and everything seemed possible. Come morning, she'd finish her latest novel, clean out her study that's been a storage dump for a year, touch up those paintings she's been meaning to work on, gather everything she's ever written into one huge olio, and single-handedly fill in all the driveway ruts. She'd also lose twenty pounds. That should set her up for all the stuff she wants to do the next day.

Four hours later, in the cold light of dawn, Fio understands why people get addicted to drugs like hydrocodone.