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A perky lady named Lynette from the surgical center just called to see how I was doing. "Just fine! Couldn't be better!" I told her in a fake hearty tone dripping with sarcasm. How else does she think I'd be feeling the day after having an already sore arm cut open from armpit almost to elbow, with a half-inch-thick bandage tightly wrapped around it and taped to my shoulder?
Lynette asked whether I was taking any pain medication. Just Celebrex, I told her, and recounted my problems with Demerol. "Oh, but you have to take narcotics!" she exclaimed. (It's been a long time since any stranger tried to force addictive drugs on me--and never by phone.) "But I don't tolerate narcotics," I growled. "Percocet and Vicodin made me itch so much I drew blood."
Pause.
"Oh, then take Tylenol," she offered brightly. "Yeah, OK," I said, not bothering to ask why I should do that when I have the Celebrex, which is way stronger and more effective.
After asking some more questions, Lynette wished me a "blessed" recovery. Oy vey, I thought. "Uh, thanks," I said. Never mind the meds, maybe I'll just have that drink.
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