"Someone stole your sandwich?" you ask. "Why, yes, someone did steal my sandwich." I say pitifully.
I was the only one not confused by my statement. I do have an excuse and it goes like this: Drugs. Prescription drugs.
I am not kidding when I say that I was sent home from the hospital with a plethora of narcotics. So many, in fact, that my husband produced a spreadsheet just to keep track. Every two hours I would swallow pills that delved me back into some world where only I and a few other characters lived. Back in real life, my family members would pass by my bedside in a blur, at least through my vision. No one was moving fast, my perception was just distorted by Oxycontin, Percocet, Nor-Co and on and on.
For nearly three months I existed in this state of delirium. Most of the memories that were created around me disappeared as the next round of pills hit my stomach. Having no idea of the conversations I had with my children or husband saddens me. While their lives moved forward I had no choice but to exist in my current state.
Although much of my recovery has had to be taken in all seriousness, I have been able to appreciate the humor that can develop due to the uncommon scenes my family and I have faced.
Many months later, after decreasing the pain meds, hearing my family disclose versions of adventures that apparently I was the only participant of, left me gaping at their amused expressions. Obviously this was completely out of character for myself and particularly engaging for my audience.
Our four children were watching over me one day and evidently it must have been around lunch time. Or maybe I just speculated it was lunch time. "Who ate my sandwich?", I asked. My children stood dumbfounded in silence. "Which one of you stole my sandwich?", I beckoned again.
" I don't think you had a sandwich, Mom." my child answered.
"I know one of you took it, give it back.", I said frustrated.
I don't know how this story ends and I have never asked. Maybe they produced another sandwich to satisfy my distress over the missing, feign one, but more honestly, I probably found another adventure in my mind to attend.
They have relinquished this story a couple of times in my presence and I sit by, in disbelief, but snickering. I have always had control of myself and my memories, so it still causes me to shake my head that I cannot elicit even a vague recollection of this episode.
When my children finish reliving this comedy, I inquire of them, "What is the moral of this story, kids?"
There is shrugging of their shoulders.
I was the only one not confused by my statement. I do have an excuse and it goes like this: Drugs. Prescription drugs.
I am not kidding when I say that I was sent home from the hospital with a plethora of narcotics. So many, in fact, that my husband produced a spreadsheet just to keep track. Every two hours I would swallow pills that delved me back into some world where only I and a few other characters lived. Back in real life, my family members would pass by my bedside in a blur, at least through my vision. No one was moving fast, my perception was just distorted by Oxycontin, Percocet, Nor-Co and on and on. For nearly three months I existed in this state of delirium. Most of the memories that were created around me disappeared as the next round of pills hit my stomach. Having no idea of the conversations I had with my children or husband saddens me. While their lives moved forward I had no choice but to exist in my current state.Although much of my recovery has had to be taken in all seriousness, I have been able to appreciate the humor that can develop due to the uncommon scenes my family and I have faced.
Many months later, after decreasing the pain meds, hearing my family disclose versions of adventures that apparently I was the only participant of, left me gaping at their amused expressions. Obviously this was completely out of character for myself and particularly engaging for my audience.
Our four children were watching over me one day and evidently it must have been around lunch time. Or maybe I just speculated it was lunch time. "Who ate my sandwich?", I asked. My children stood dumbfounded in silence. "Which one of you stole my sandwich?", I beckoned again.
" I don't think you had a sandwich, Mom." my child answered.
"I know one of you took it, give it back.", I said frustrated.
I don't know how this story ends and I have never asked. Maybe they produced another sandwich to satisfy my distress over the missing, feign one, but more honestly, I probably found another adventure in my mind to attend. They have relinquished this story a couple of times in my presence and I sit by, in disbelief, but snickering. I have always had control of myself and my memories, so it still causes me to shake my head that I cannot elicit even a vague recollection of this episode.
When my children finish reliving this comedy, I inquire of them, "What is the moral of this story, kids?"
There is shrugging of their shoulders.
I burst out, "Don't Do Drugs!!!"
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