10 Days of Pain: Part 3 – I Can’t Sleep

I can’t bloody sleep.

Presently, it’s taken me a while to write Part 3. At this rate, even George R.R. Martin will finish his next book before me. Since Part 2, nights have mostly been me, wide awake at 3 or 4 in the morning, doing interpretive pain-dancing while clutching my jaw. I wait for the codeine (or on VIP nights, the morphine), to swoop in. My reluctant hero with terrible timekeeping.

Healing just has not made it into my schedule yet.
My nights are pain and worry.
My days are a conveyor belt of medical appointments: Me, Emma, Poppy. Repeat. Take this medication, do that jaw movement, have this scan. All of it seemingly getting me nowhere.

I’m medically treading water.

It’s tiring. Mornings are the worst, and unpredictable too – some days I’m fine, others I awake into the midst of a full blown pain attack, served with a side order of jaw completely out alignment. Though I am fortunate enough to have the time off I need to get this healing done, and eventually get back to the super soldier I felt I was once.

But, my family need me too.

My wife, Emma, has been dealing with even more than I have, pain shooting from her back down her legs constantly, an infection followed by the flu and two kids that JUST. HAVE. NO. CHILL. So I’d really appreciate it if this condition would politely fuck off and let me actually be a present, vaguely useful family man again.

But no. Not yet. It seems the pain has settled in, ordered takeaway, and started a Netflix series. It’s going nowhere.
Incidentally, Ozark is very good – worthy of a binge watch if you haven’t already seen it.

I have an appointment with a specialist pain consultant next week, where I actually hope he magically does something useful. Perhaps he can dissolve a delightful combo of TMJ dysfunction and Trigeminal Neuropathic Agony, popping up whenever it fancies. It’s always a treat to be mid-conversation in the in-laws’ kitchen when your right cheek suddenly behaves like it’s been tasered and you try not to redecorate the floor with the coffee you were holding.

I can’t sleep.

It’s past midnight and I lie here awake in pain, writing this, wondering why and how this happened. Desperately trying to problem solve my way out of it. A low flying helicopter noisily buzzes past the rooftops, briefly reminding me of the job, and what I’m capable of when I lace up the pair of size 10 Altberg Boots stowed away in the hall – before my own face took me to the floor.

It’s not all doom and gloom though, let’s continue the hospital ward story shall we…

🕑 72 Hours In & My Brain Has Left the Building

At this point (what is it day 3? 4?) I’m starting to question everything. Did I actually pass out? Why does the pain come and go like the faulty fire alarm out in the corridor? Am I doing something wrong? Why is this all suddenly worse? What am I even doing in hospital?

This is where sombre quietly takes off its shoes and leapfrogs into full-blown absurdity.

I’m lying there in the ward, listening to the chorus of snoring around me, longing for my own silent bedroom at home. Meanwhile, my sympathetic nervous system has decided sleep is for other people and I don’t deserve such a luxury. My mind is sprinting laps. My life isn’t a happy one right now, I think. I’m so tired of holding everything together. I just have nothing left. I cannot keep bouncing from crisis to crisis.

I can’t fucking sleep.

My brain whirrs, and throws it all at me. I just want a version of life where I’m not constantly rescuing, fixing, firefighting, worrying, and—

ZZZZZZZ…

It wasn’t snoring. It was a roar. A monster of a sound emanating from the end bay. Harry was producing a sound that I didn’t think was possible. Local foxes paused their bin-raiding and evacuated the area. Somewhere in the next hospital block, an ECG machine flatlined out of pure intimidation from this mighty human being.

Harry was a big lad, and here for his own medical reasons no doubt, but whatever was going on with him, snoring was clearly his superpower. He was a gentle soul, I later found out. He used to be a chef until his eyesight began failing, and we would spend some time chatting throughout my week there. He even shared a Scotch Egg recipe with me, bless his heart. But right now?

He. Was. SNORING.

ZZZZZZZZ.

“OI!” Cockney Neil had yanked back the curtains and jabbed Harry in the ribs. “Stop snoring ya big gay bear!”

Word-for-word the actual quote. Cue laughter from Tom, Richard, and, unbelievably, Harry himself who blinked awake and went straight to the important question at hand:

“What? What’s a gay bear?”

And just to add, absolutely no shade to the LGBTQ+ community. Bears are bloody fabulous, and Harry? Even more so.

But at that moment, all I really wanted was to sleep.
But the universe said,
“Nah, mate, you’re not done yet.”

The next day brought pain, and more needles,
and the most bizarre cast of characters I’ve ever met.

Part 4 – Dr Pain & The Ward of Strange Gentlemen, coming very soon to a screen near you. I have to take some pills first, and then apparently I’m not allowed to type things for a bit. Because reasons. But oh boy, part 4 is my favourite.

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You can recap Part 1 here.

Now, about that Scotch Egg…