Pain killers. I knew there was a reason I didn’t want to take them. You know, other than the whole addictive potential thing.
Saturday night I was not doing well. At all. After about two hours of tossing and turning, wishing more than anything I could get to sleep, I decided to take half of one of the pain pills my nurse practitioner prescribed for me. This oxycodone, which was supposed to only last 12 hours, left me feeling exhausted and nauseous all day Sunday. I slept more than I was awake, because being awake meant I had to struggle not to throw up. It was a great day.
Now, I’d had this reaction before to Tramadol, which Dr. Jerkface prescribed for me, even though I had told him I didn’t want to take a pain-killer. He prescribed it, told me it was just a stronger NSAID and then ignored my calls for a week or two as my joints steadily became more painful. It was a bloody miracle when he magically phoned me back when I agreed to take it. It, too, make me feel violently ill, though not nearly as fatigued as the oxycodone.
Well, lesson learned: Next time I will stick to my guns and not take whatever opiate the doctors prescribed. I’d rather hurt than feel the way I did yesterday. Blech.