Horrible Pain

Her name was Mrs. Gibson, and as soon as I pulled into the driveway, her daughter Alecia ran out to the car and tugged on my arm.

“She’s in such horrible pain! Hurry! Hurry!”

I let her pull me into the house, which was filled with frightened people, all milling about. Some were wringing their hands. Others had tears streaking down their cheeks. From inside a back bedroom, I heard someone crying out loudly in agony.

“Oh, God, oh God, oooooohhhh, My God!”

Mrs. Gibson was doubled over in the bed, holding her stomach, writhing in pain. She was pale and drenched with sweat.

“Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” she kept saying over, and over again, rolling in the bed.

Alecia shoved me in toward the bed.

“Help her!” she said, her voice shrill, and full of panic. “Do something!”

An elderly man hugged her and held Alecia close.

“It’s not magic, honey,” he said gently. “He just got here.”

Alecia burst into tears, and sobbed on the old man’s shoulder, who continued to hold her gently.

“Maybe we should call 911, huh?” another man behind me said, as he pulled out his cell phone.

“Not yet,” I said. “We can do this faster here.”

“You sure?” the old man asked.

“I’m certain.”

I sat in the chair next to Mrs. Gibson, taking her hand. “Tell me where the pain is sweetie.”

“Stomach,” she gasped. “Hurts. Hurts so bad. Can’t stand it anymore!”

“What’s the pain like? Is it a dull ache, a burning, or is it sharp like a knife?”

“What difference does that make?” Alecia shouted. “She’s in pain!

“Honey, he’s just trying to find things out.”

“But he’s not doing anything!”

“Different kinds of pain are caused by different things,” I said. Mrs. Gibson nodded trustingly. “Some medications are better than others for different types of pain.”

“It’s sharp.” She swallowed hard. “Feels like a knife.”

“What pain medication do you have now?”

“Vicodin,” the old man said. “It used to work, but now, it doesn’t do anything for her.”

Mrs. Gibson nodded, but continued to moan, and roll back and forth. She gripped my hand tightly, her fingernails digging deeply into my palm.

“It’s all we got!” Alecia said. “We don’t take pills around here. So, we don’t even have Tylenol! Didn’t you bring anything with you?”

“No. We don’t transport medications.”

“You don’t?” Alecia’s eyes went wide, and her voice shrilled again, panicky. “But we were told you were going to bring something to stop her pain!”

“Well, you do you have that small white box with a red seal on it, right? The one that they delivered when she was first admitted?”

“Yes, it’s in the refrigerator. Does that have pain medication in it?”

“Yes, it does. Can you get it for me, please?”

Alecia, literally ran out of the room, pushing, and shoving her way through the utterly silent group of people clogging the hallway, and dining room. She flung open the door to the refrigerator, and threw things out onto the counter, and the floor. Finally, she found the box.

“I got it!” She shouted and ran back in, handing it to me, her hands shaking.

“Do you have the Vicodin?” I asked.

“But we just told you that doesn’t work anymore! Why’d you have me get that box for you if you weren’t going to use it?”

“Oh, I am. I just need to know the dosages so I can call the doctor and get orders for something stronger for her.”

“Is that what’s in the box?”

“Yes.”

“What’s in there?” the old man asked.

“Morphine.”

“M-Morphine?” Alecia stuttered. A look of horror came over her face. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. Are you sure she needs – morphine?”

“Anything that works,” Mrs. Gibson gasped, squeezing my hand tighter.

“He knows what he’s doing, honey,” the old man said quietly. “He’s a professional, just like you.”

“But morphine is something you use for someone who is just about to die!” she wailed.

“But that’s not what we’re using it for here,” I said. “We’re just using it to get rid of her pain. That’s all.”

Alecia’s eyes filled with tears, and both of her hands went up to her mouth, but she nodded in agreement.

After figuring out what dosages to suggest, I called the doctor who was only too happy to okay the orders, since in the background Mrs. Gibson continued to cry out loudly in pain.

“Okay,” I said after I hung up. “Got it.” I turned to the crowd behind me. “What the doctor has asked me to do is what we call a pain titration order. In other words, over the next hour, or so, I’m going to be giving her liquid morphine under the tongue at regular intervals until her pain is under control.”

“Under the tongue?” the elderly man asked. “Not a shot?”

“No, it’s a very concentrated liquid so it’s absorbed under the tongue or in the cheek. There’s a big artery underneath the tongue, so it works almost as fast as an IV that way. It doesn’t matter if she swallows it or not.”

“Are you – sure – this is going to work?” Alecia asked quietly in a tremulous voice.

“It’ll work.” I took out the first dose and gave it to Mrs. Gibson. She smiled at me.

“That tastes awful,” she said, and everybody laughed.

“Yeah, I know. Medicine doesn’t work very well unless it tastes bad, you know.”

“Well, this stuff should work wonders.”

And miraculously – it did.

I am still amazed every single time it happens. It’s such a simple act, and yet it brings such comfort in such a short period of time. Within thirty minutes her pain was cut in half, and in forty-five minutes it was gone entirely.

The whole house gradually became alive, first with approving quiet murmurs which eventually gave way to laughter, and big grins.

Alecia sat at her mother’s side, stroking her hand gently as Mrs. Gibson now rested comfortably, drifting off to sleep.

“How can we ever repay you?” she asked.

“Oh, I’m glad to do it. Just keep giving that to her every two hours if she’s in pain, like the doctor ordered, and I’ll make sure the team knows about it when I make my report in the morning.”

I left then amid the dozen or so grateful people in the kitchen, and living room, who all thanked me profusely, shook my hand, and slapped me on the back. Even the people cleaning eggs up off the floor stood and waved.

Normally, this is where the story would end, but about six months later, as I was driving home at 1:00 AM, a patrol car turned on its lights, and pulled me over. The deputy got out, and asked me for my license, and registration.

“You have a taillight out,” she said.

But, then after looking at my driver’s license, she shone the flashlight on my face, and then on my Hospice nametag.

“It’s you!” she said. “You’re the nurse who took care of my mother!”

I glanced up to see Alecia, now wearing a deputy sheriff’s uniform grinning broadly at me.

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Of course. Your mother was in a great deal of pain one night.”

“Yes! She sure was. And you’re the one who got rid of it for her! Oh, my God, you don’t know what you did for her, and for our family. She stayed on that liquid morphine stuff, until the day she died about a month later. That one thing kept her comfortable for the rest of the time she had left with us! Here.” She handed me my license, and registration. “I’ll give you an escort home, so you don’t get pulled over again for that taillight. Just make sure to get it fixed, okay?”

“Yeah, I sure will! Thanks!”

And that’s how I got a full-blown police escort home one night, with lights. Sometimes, there are more perks in life just than your paycheck. Mine was seeing Mrs.’s Gibson’s pain disappear. Alecia’s was providing me an escort home.

 

 

Due to the imminent arrival of Hurricane Idalia in a few hours, I thought it might be best to post something now instead of later since we might be out of power for several days. I’m still not sure yet what I’m going to work on next, so this is just something I wrote years ago when I was working.