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I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream for Morphine!

To be honest, I have never really understood drug addiction. Not that anyone ever woke up and decided that becoming dependent on drugs was a good idea, but I have always wondered why they couldn't just, you know, stop taking them. Until I discovered morphine. And the doctors discovered that I LOVED morphine more than was probably healthy. And took it away from me.

I was completely and utterly bereft.

To be fair, it all started innocently enough. Two weeks before my due date, I mentioned to Dr C that my younger (thinner and more attractive) sister had been in huge amounts of pain after her Caesar and that I was extremely nervous about having the same thing happen to me.

"Not to worry," said the gorgeous Dr C, "I don't like my patients to be in any form of pain whatsoever and encourage them to use a self-administering morphine pump any time they start to feel uncomfortable or sore."

Fabulous news! But little did I realise how fabulous this little precious little item would prove to be when Isabella was born... Here's what happened...

Immediately after returning from Recovery, all beaming and delighted that I had somehow managed to create such a perfect human being without trying very hard, the anaesthetist explained that the little green object next to me would deliver doses of morphine directly into my drip whenever I needed it. In fact, he made me press the little button three times just to see how it worked.

Within seconds, SECONDS people, it felt as though warm chocolate was cascading through every vein in my body. I literally melted into the bed and smiled at him, at Stephen, at my baby. I think I even smiled at the catheter bag - what a BRILLIANT invention. Flowers began sprouting out of empty plastic bedpans, Westlife appeared at the foot of my bed singing "This Love Is Unbreakable", and all the nurses transformed into cast members from Grey's Anatomy and joined in the singing. What can I say, I was in love - with life, with the universe, and especially with my morphine pump.

Stephen, on the other hand, was starting to look ever so slightly alarmed - especially when I started pumping it just for fun. "Um, what if she overdoses?" he nervously asked the anaesthetist while his wife sat lay slumped again the pillow humming to herself and conducting an imaginary orchestra that only she could see.

The anaesthetist just laughed. "She'll fall asleep before that happens," he assured Stephen before patting me gently on a leg that had still to regain any semblance of feeling. "Enjoy!"

And enjoy it, I did. Apparently, and I have no recollection of this whatsoever, my sister-in-law popped in to see the new lovely addition to the family, and I proudly held up my morphine pump. "I meant the baby," she allegedly said, before leaving me to cuddle up with my morphine while she went in search of her niece. All hearsay, of course.

Anyway, the next morning, having had THE best night's sleep in the history of ever, the nurses tried valiantly to remove my drip and catheter. Which was all fine and well, except for the fact that my drip was attached to my morphine pump, and there wasn't a chance this side of heaven that I was ready to say goodbye to the new love of my life.

Eventually, MANY tears later (yes, I made them both cry), my drip, catheter AND morphine were all whisked away, and just to spite me, I was made to go for a walk AND have a shower. They then tried to pacify me with anti-inflammatories and pain killers, which were about as effective as giving Disprin to a woman in labour. Bunch of useless loonies. It was NOT a happy day for any of them.

The upside is that I soon recovered my zest for life (in the form of chocolate) and have a new respect for the power of narcotics. That being said, I would still give my right arm - well, Stephen's right arm actually, for another few minutes with my morphine pump. And I am sure I could stop ANY time I want...

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