When you imagine being a prizefighter, your mental imagery is probably cribbed from HBO 24/7 boxing montages and UFC all access. Thrilling, action packed moments of excitement and glory. It’s mostly just waiting around though, in varying degrees of discomfort.
I can’t move my neck. I’ve had to cradle my head between both hands in order to stand up and sit down in the waiting rooms as I’ve been filtered through various stages of admission. Now I’m strapped to a hospital bed, restrained like a lunatic in an asylum. The pain is debilitating. Not just the intensity of it, but the unnerving sensation of being made of steel one moment, and then suddenly becoming as fragile as glass.
I want morphine, but if I say I want it I’ll look like a drug blagger. I may have already been flagged, as I’ve had morphine a few times at different hospitals, including this one. I tentatively enquire about ‘pain relief’- they offer aspirin. ”It’s a bit worse than that”. I explain that my digestive problems make NSAIDs a no go for me, as I hint towards my desire for opiates.
“We can offer you an ibuprofen suppository”
It arrives on one of those kidney shaped cardboard bowls. A small white bullet, with a glistening dollop of KY jelly clinging to it lopsidedly. Now that I can’t fight, and won’t be able to hold pads, my bills won’t get paid this month. How could this day get any worse?
”would you like a hand with that?”
Ah, there it is. That’s how it could get worse. A nurse could stick her finger up my arse.
“I think I’ll manage, thanks”
I can’t really quite manage though. With your head strapped down, and your neck in some degree of agony, it turns out it’s difficult to get your own finger in your anus.
I can live without the Ibuprofen.