When I had my wrist surgery, which was now almost 7 weeks ago, the ortho surgeon prescribed me 40 OxyContin pills for pain. The label said take one every four hours, which was something I knew right from the start I was not going to do.

Move to today and I have three pills left. I am not panicking, but I am disappointed in myself that I've used nearly all of them, even if I only averaged about 4-5 a week, instead of 4-5 a day, as the suggested dose read.

I get 0 refills and I'm not panicking about that either. 

But I am going to be completely honest: I wish I did have a refill available. My pain is still chronic and (here is where I'm mortified) I like the way OxyContin makes me feel. 

I am not going to try and pursue getting more, though: I don't think that is an option and, more importantly, I don't want it to be an option.

My plan is go back to acupuncture, which I have used in the past to combat bad headaches and other kinds of pain.

As for the way oxy makes me feel: well, I was able to let go of my nightly glass (sometimes glasses) of wine after I fell and broke my wrist and I can let go of my fondness for the way I feel for a medicine I shouldn't have started taking in the first place. 

Bringing it home with me the day of the surgery, it almost felt like I had a loaded gun in my possession. I told myself I was going to toss it after the first four days, but instead I just held off on taking it and painstakingly saved it for only the days I could not bear the pain.

There are other ways to manage pain and anxiety (the bigger reason I found myself liking Oxy more than I should) and I am going to be find them and follow through, ideally in the most natural of ways.

 

I get this, way beyond any words I could ever express...it's from Vanity Fair magazine, in the early 1920s:

 

Sabotage 

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden hue over the sandy shores of Gilligan’s Island. The seven castaways—Gilligan, the Skipper, the Professor, Mary Ann, Ginger, Mr. Howell, and Mrs. Howell—had been stranded here for what felt like an eternity. 

But secretly, they reveled in their isolation.

Gilligan, the bumbling first mate, had grown fond of the simple life. No more deadlines, no more rat race. He’d become the island’s unofficial coconut expert, fashioning intricate sculptures out of the fibrous shells. He’d even taught the parrots to sing show tunes.

The Skipper, gruff and lovable, had found solace in the rhythm of the waves. He’d traded his captain’s hat for a straw one, and every morning, he’d sit on the beach, fishing rod in hand, waiting for the elusive giant clam that had become his white whale.

The Professor, brilliant but socially awkward, had discovered a hidden passion for botany. He’d cataloged every plant on the island, naming them after famous scientists. His prized specimen, the “Darwinia Palm,” stood tall near the lagoon.

Mary Ann, the girl-next-door, had embraced her inner survivalist. She’d perfected the art of coconut milk pancakes and woven baskets from palm fronds. Her sun-kissed skin and freckles had become her badge of honor.

Ginger, the glamorous movie star, had traded her sequined gowns for sarongs. She’d built a makeshift stage near the campfire and performed one-woman shows, reenacting scenes from her old films. The applause of the palm trees was all she needed.

Mr. Howell, the millionaire, had lost count of his imaginary bank accounts. He’d become the island’s financial advisor, doling out coconuts like currency. His wife, Mrs. Howell, had taken up watercolor painting, capturing the island’s beauty in soft pastels.

And so, they whispered their secrets to the rustling palm fronds:

“I don’t miss life at sea,” Gilligan confessed to a curious hermit crab.

“I’ve forgotten what a high-society gala even looks like,” Ginger murmured to the wind.

“I never want to see the university again,” the Professor admitted to a passing seagull.

“Diamonds are lovely, but starlit skies are priceless,” Mrs. Howell confided in a moonlit night.

“I don't miss keeping track of stocks,” Mr. Howell whispered to the waves.

And as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, they reveled in their secret pact. 

They’d sabotage every rescue attempt—the coconut radio would mysteriously malfunction, the signal fire would sputter out. They’d laugh and dance around the bonfire, celebrating their freedom from the outside world.

For on Gilligan’s Island, they were no longer castaways. They were a family, bound by sunsets and sea breezes, content in their tropical paradise. 

And so, they whispered their silent prayer:

“May the rescue boats never find us.”

.

 

Fringe Benefits

(Fringe fanfiction) 

In the dimly lit lab of Harvard University, the air was thick with the scent of strawberries. Walter Bishop, the brilliant yet eccentric scientist, was in the midst of a culinary experiment that had nothing to do with the fate of the universe, yet everything to do with the perfection of taste.

“Ah, Astrid, my dear,” Walter called out, not taking his eyes off the blender that whirred with a pink concoction. “Would you be so kind as to pass me the sugar? This batch of strawberry milkshake will be my masterpiece!”

Astrid Farnsworth, ever the patient assistant, handed him the sugar with a smile. “I’m sure it will be, Walter. Just don’t blow up the lab this time.”

Just as Walter was about to respond, the air shimmered, and Fauxlivia Dunham stepped through from the alternate universe. Her red hair was a stark contrast to the sterile environment of the lab.

“Walter, I need your help,” she said urgently, but her eyes couldn’t help but wander to the blender. “Is that a strawberry milkshake?”

Walter, unfazed by the sudden visit, nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! Would you like to try it? It’s not just any milkshake; it’s the elixir of joy, the liquid embodiment of bliss!”

Fauxlivia couldn’t help but laugh. “Sure, Walter. Let’s save the universe after a milkshake break.”

As the three of them stood around the lab’s old table, sipping on the creamy drink, for a moment, the troubles of their worlds seemed to melt away, one strawberry milkshake at a time.

My projected date to have my wrist back to normal as much as possible is March 23.

The splint I wear now is detachable (for PT purposes), but somehow it hurts more than the splint I had before and immediately after my surgery.

I started PT two weeks ago and it's helping a lot. This is my first experience with PT, and my therapist is absolutely wonderful: She's kind, but also very firm. 

A coworker told me that she's well known for being very good in her field and I can see it!

This Sunday will be four weeks since I fell. I feel like I'm making progress: The other day, I was able to make a meal from scratch and chop vegetables by holding the vegetables in my left hand and chopping with my dominant right hand. 

I've resumed some of my other activities too and am back at work. But I still have trouble tying trash bags and I can't pick up my cat yet...or even play with him properly🥺

I haven't told my parents anything. I've never hid anything this big from them before. The previous two times I had surgery they were were there when I woke, but that was years ago and bigger surgeries.

I hate lying, I truly do, but my parents live out of state and there's no need to worry them when there's nothing they can do anyway.

My biggest fear about the surgery was the anesthesia. I was so scared. 

But the staff at the surgery center were awesome. I remember asking the nurse who was with me "when are they gonna wheel me into surgery?" And then the next thing I knew I was waking up and clutching her hand and asking her if I was in the afterlife.🤦‍♀️

The person who came with me to be there when I woke up and take me home appeared after I woke up and I couldn't stop laughing. Everything made me laugh. She said to me "well, it sounds you're doing okay."🤣