After I delivered Jake they gave me a pretty healthy dose of morphine to make up for splitting my gut open. It's probably a fair trade for most people, but for me it resulted in spazzing out about bugs in my bed boring holes in my skin and me being unable to move much to do anything about it because of my stitches and my blood drugcohol levels.
I dug into the skin on my chest, neck, and arms with my fingernails and called the nurse on duty crying and pleading for help, a can of bug spray, a new bed, and an exterminator. It was either late at night or early in the morning and I was all alone in my dark room and my glasses and light switch were out of reach. It was the worst experience of my whole entire life involving illicit substances.
The nurse gave me some Benedryl and a shot of "something to calm me down" and tried to reason with the unreasonable about what was actually happening in my body (allergies, not flesh-eating microscopic bugs). I couldn't breath well enough to listen to her.
When I woke up from my coma I saw the red lines on my chest and cried because I thought they were new stretch marks. And then I remembered what actually happened and I cried because I thought I was a junkie. Then I cried because they moved a real-live junkie into my room while I was sleeping and she and her junkie baby were in my room with me and my baby. Then I just cried.
I requested that no morphine be injected into my body after my face is cut off next month. I think that it is best for all involved.
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