Getting Wired

I've been searching for alternative pain relief since being taken off my anti-inflammatorys just before Christmas. Vioxx and Celebrex are no more in the UK - well, nobody'll gimme 'em any anymore, which is a bea-tch because my guts don't like the other stuff - voltarol, ketoprofen, naproxen and so on.

I was in hospital a while ago complaining when my dose of diclofenac was put up, knowing full well my stomach wasn't up to it. Two days later curled up in a ball groaning and puking, a rhematologist came along and said "you're not feeling very well, are you?" (Thank God For The Ones Who Notice) The man put me on Vioxx and to be honest, sometimes, (well, if I was single anyway) I think I'd rather take the drug and take the risks. I've taken enough risks with other drugs - one which is actually doing me some good, in enabling me to feel better, would be worth taking a chance on... more so than ones that just encourage me to eat my own bodyweight five times over, commune with psychedelic amphibians, float, watch cr@ppy films, and... I could go on, but I think you get the picture.

I'd really like to ring the fools at the Celebrex PR office for announcing it just before Christmas, the ultimate season of pigging out, knowing full well all the poor buggers who were on it were probably taking it because all the other pills ate up their stomach linings. Some fool up there ruined Christmas for a lot of disabled people, and I'll be adding them to my list for glorious retribution at some point in the future.

So Christmas feasting was postponed due to me trying ketoprofen again. Arrgh. I was predicably sick, acid reflux and so on. At least I didn't put on any weight on, although Mr Fang's parents bought us a bread machine so I have made up for it since.

Since then I've been eating painkillers, being off work, and taking life in the slow lane. I can't, I won't quite believe this is IT on the pain solution front. What a crappy way to live. My local hospital say it'll be 5 months or so before I can see a specialised physio or have any pain management too. I'm determined not to be found dead next to a note that says I can't take it anymore - but I have thought about it. And decided not yet. Coming back to this entry today and editing it is particularly poignant as I've just discovered one of my all time heros, Hunter S. Thompson is dead. I wonder what would happen to the system if one criteria for urgent treatment was getting to the point where you sit at home with a gun to your head? Oh, Hunter...

Somebody convert me, fool me, sell me a quack cure, convince me to wear a turquoise tracksuit or whatever, and I'll do it, I'm ready. Bring it on as long as it tricks my foggy, opiate ridden brain into thinking pain is not devilling me any more. Just for a little while. I'm alright really. Aren't I? But sometimes when you're not having a good time, and your mind explores the options... stuff flits into your head.

Deep down I'm chicken, boring and sensible though, so last Thursday I took myself off to the local chemists and borrowed a tens machine. Bless the chemist for doing something like this - you don't want to buy one and find out they're not for you, and the only other route to borrowing is usually the NHS. And you have to get there first.. which is a circus and takes too bloody long for people who have chronic complaints as opposed to the ones who have something spectacular and urgent guaranteed to push up the stats.

I'm going to finish the blog about the TeNS machine some other time.