And when will you be getting a good night's sleep?

Friday, May 09, 2008

That's what I get asked most often. Oh sure, people ask how Michael is and how he's feeling, mending, etc. But mostly people ask how I am. During the first two weeks I thought this was strange. Why would people be asking me thing? He's the broken one, after all. Two and a half weeks in, however, and I'm feeling it. I still don't mind the work, I'm just tired. Not so much because he sits up a few times each night because he's uncomfortable always being on his back, though I do wake up almost every time - even when I slept in the guest room because his allergies were making him snore so loudly I swear the neighbors were about to complain. I'm mostly tired because I have to give him his worthless pain pills every four hours and that means that my alarm goes off at 2am every day. I don't blame him. I blame the stupid prescription.

The ER doctor prescribed Norco with 10mg hydrocodone and 325mg acetaminophen. These pills were awesome - exaggerated sense of well being, etc, etc. Probably why the first couple weeks were so great. Then the orthopedist prescribed Vicodin with 5mg hydrocodone and 500mg acetaminophen. Giving him a big Tylenol with a hint of actual relief is some sick joke and we're not laughing. Plus the acetaminophen is wreaking havoc on his liver. The max dosage anyone should have each day of acetaminophen is 4 grams. At the rate he is forced to take these pills, he's at 3 grams. And he was taking 4 Norcos a day as compared to the 6 Vicodin he's currently on a day. Maybe they're worried about addiction, I don't know. I do know that getting a doctor to return your call is like asking the president to pronounce nuclear correctly. He's been trying both the orthopedist and his primary care doctor since Wednesday and has had no luck at all.

On the bright side, we got his temporary disabled placard on Wednesday. Fortunately I made an appointment at the DMV so we were only there 15 minutes. This was a good thing as I'd forgotten that the DMV was such a hip hangout for teenage ghetto sleezebags. Who knew!