I messed up my knee. Not a huge, end-of-the-world messed up my knee; more like a heels-on-shoes-shouldn’t-bend-that-way-oh-dear-God-why-is-my-foot-suctioned-to-the-floor kind of way.
Long story short (a first for me, I know), I ended up with a massive bone bruise in my knee and a lovely piece of rogue cartilage bungling up the joint. So, I’m stuck on crutches until the bruise heals and had to have a tiny little surgery to get the extra floaty bit removed.
The surgery wasn’t that bad, though it was really rude that they knocked me out mid-sentence without warning me it was coming. I was telling them very important things about visiting Alaska that they will never get to know.
The terror came in the post operation pain killers. I had said no to Oxy. That stuff is too scary for me. So they gave me the friendlier Tramadol, painkilling without the epidemic implications.
I get home from surgery and the husband hands me two, you know, to get in front of the pain. I take the medicine drift to sleep, wake up a little later to realize I can hear my eyes open and close. Not like the faint rustle of eyelashes. I can hear the change in blood flow that comes from opening and closing my eyes. Blinking was like a flash rainstorm inside my ears!
Granted, it helped my knee quite a bit. I’m glad I got to sleep a lot that first day and just pretend the pain wasn’t happening.
But if Tramadol makes me hear my eyes, what torture would Oxy produce?
You know what? I don’t want to know. I’m just going to chill out with my ice pack and baby Aspirin. Because that’s where I feel safe blinking.