So yesterday, my anaesthetist called and asked how I was getting on. 'I feel sick,' I moaned. He said that was probably my pain-killers, and that if they were making me nauseous, I shouldn't take them. But I heard my nurse's advice ringing in my ears, that they have a cumulative effect, and that I should keep popping them consistently. In the end, I weighed up the nausea and the pain, fear of the former won out and I stayed off the Co-Dydramol.
Until 4am, when I woke up feeling like most of the left hand side of my jaw had been removed with an ice-cream scoop and that hundreds of tiny fat men in shoes made of lava were jumping up and down rhythmically on the excavation. Fear of nausea shrunk like a lambswool jumper in a boil wash and the pills were duly popped. Since then, it's been a fun cycle of pain and dread of imminent pain. Still, we knew it was going to happen at some point. And thankfully, I have several weeks' worth of American Idol saved up and a handsome nurse has just brought me season two of The Wire. It would be churlish to complain.
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