Battling Pain As Well As Pain Medicine

I feel like a child with a skinned knee. "Mommy, my knee hurts." And ten minutes later, "Mommy, my knee hurts."

I am in no way relating Alison to my knee, but am making the point that when something is askew, it's all one can talk about, even if the listener already knows.

Alison has been basically unresponsive since Saturday. Her pain is under control, but I have to come close to slapping her to get her awake enough to take her pills. She's saturated. Sedated. I talked on her behalf today to the pain management specialist, and we're going to chart a different course now. We have to dry her up a bit to try a different way to manage her pain. The goal is to get a responsive and pain-manageable Alison back.

So it's Zombie Alison or Crying Alison. Both are painful to see. I'm reading to her, and sharing my earphones with her, because I imagine that even in her sleep she can be comforted. Just something to say "I'm here with you."

It's very lonely, not having her talk to me. Its as if I have the bag of water and am walking through the desert bringing it to her, knowing that if I can carry it through, better times will be on the other side. Don't get me wrong: family is great. But my favorite times are when it's just me and her together, listening to the clock and the pump and the air conditioning. Listening to her breathing.