Corner turned

Ken called Monday at 1:49 p.m. and announced he had "turned the corner.''
He was pretty sure that the last seven days of anquish had been actually withdrawal from the pain pops he'd been sucking since he'd eliminated daily doses of oxy cotin. These little "pain pops" are Oral Transmucosal Fentanyl Citrate. He'd pop them in his mouth. Rub the nub of opiate inside where it could absorb quickly and soon it was backing the braying dogs of pain back into their pen.
But on Tuesday, July 28, our son's 31st birthday, Dr. Lieberman told Ken that the pain pops were undermining the pain pump's effectiveness. He had to stop them.
Ken didn't know if he could. He'd already been reduced to rubble by the six weeks of detox. The pain pops -- at least three a day -- had been what had gotten him through.
But he stopped them. He knew he had no choice.
Ken would now probably say he had bottomed out because he has such new-found empathy for people whose bodies clamor for relief in whatever form it comes and however destructive.
The days ahead were difficult.
At one point, when we were in the swimming pool hoping that the near bath-water temperatures of the pool water and his bouyancy would relieve some of the pressure on his spine, he said "I think this is withdrawal. I don't think it's the pump."
I had not clued in on the pain pop factor. I just knew that the man who had talked to me for a solid 60 minutes and been the animated guest at a dinner party the previous weekend was reduced to near monosyllables and could not sit up longer than 5 minute stretches a week later. We seemed to be spiraling downhill. I kept teetering between taking him to the ER and distracting him with ice cream.
By Sunday, he said "I think I was addicted to the pain pops. I think this was all withdrawal.''
Now he's left with pain that reminds him of the original surgery 11 years ago. But somehow that all seems manageable. Hopeful. With each adjustment of the pain relief cocktail he will experience more relief.
Or that's the hope.
Meanwhile, on Sunday he talked for 90 minutes straight. A lucid, detailed conversation about a science fiction book he was reading. Not something I normally would have lasted through for more than 10 minutes. But when I said, "You're losing me.'' He said, "But it helps me not think about the pain."