Chronic pain is turning my head into a pressure cooker, the gristly contents stewing away while the odd jet of steam escapes in a random splutter. The nerve endings at the site of my spinal surgery have formed an unresting choir, their efforts never less than a bass grumble and frequently rising through shuffling discord to shrill squeal.
Pain is making me a bit peculiar. I can grit my teeth and will the beast into submission for days or weeks, but periodically it wins and I have to take a tranquiliser or two and spend a day or three in a state of narcoleptic surrender. My brain fills with tar and starts functioning like British Leyland, circa 1979. Neurons don't seem to fire, nor can they be fired even if they sit around reading the Sun and picking their noses all day.
This isn't much of a lifestyle choice. I'm bloody-minded enough to fight off the beast, most of the time. I work nearly full-time hours, have a social life, swim, lift weights and don't drink heavily every night of the week. In the gym, I cause myself a little more pain just so I can look in the mirror and show the beast that it won't turn me into a pasty, drug-addled pudding.
Perhaps I can only win a pyrrhic victory this way, but I've got so much pain to share. It's unfair to share it with people I care about, and too messy and complicated to share with the rest. So, do I fall on my own sword? Do I slap myself silly to daze and distract myself, as I've done once or twice as a non-prescription alternative to opiates? Perhaps I need a new focus.
Mice have found their enterprising way into the loft of our detached, ten-year old house. They convened an orgy of gnawing at the plasterboard, insulation and timbers above my head on a night when my pain had me fizzing with adrenaline. The next day, my Guardian-reading, fair-trade tendencies smouldering on the fires of insomnia, I acquired a sleek, black rat trap from a reputable ironmonger, baited it with organic peanut butter and within hours heard the gratifying crack of justice.
Marigolds and miniature bodybag in hand, I ventured into the cold space above my centrally-heated life and acquainted myself with my victim. The mouse's back was broken, its carcass sagging from a steel jaw, flecked with blood and seeming too tiny to accommodate nerve, bone, sinew and feeling. This scurrying agent of my pain wouldn't be troubling me again.
I had for a picosecond considered buying a humane trap, detaining the verminous critter in an approved manner and driving into the countryside (taking care to limit our carbon footprint) to restore it to liberty and watch it scurry into the golden sunset. But that wouldn't have allowed me to kill something that caused me pain.
Am I going a bit peculiar?
My solicitor suggested I keep a diary in support of my personal injury claim. I'm sure this isn't what he had in mind.
Normal service may be resumed when I've had a good week's sleep.
