My doctor assured me when I quit taking the morphine there’d be no withdrawal to speak of. I went through three days and nights of withdrawal and since I’d been assured that that wouldn’t happen, it caused confusion in my mind about what was happening to me. I felt tremendous anxiety, panic, and fear. I felt afraid to go outside, to get in a car—to go anywhere.
The nights brought the worse symptoms and I spent three mostly sleepless nights. One evening when I was assailed by a great deal of anxiety, something I usually don’t experience, I called a pastor friend of mine, Pastor Kaster or PK as we called him.
I described to him what I was going through and related to him I’d taken morphine for the last month. He immediately made the connection and said, “You’re going through withdrawal. This doesn’t mean that you’ve become an anxious person or will be having panic attacks later on. He advised me to hang on, keep praying and like most things in our lives—both good and bad—that , “this, too, will pass.”
Heartened by his words, even though I still felt the anxiety, panic and fear and still didn’t get much sleep, I knew the reason for it and knew with God’s help I’d get through this okay.
And I did.
Feeling somewhat better after quitting the morphine and with the promise of pain relief I set out several days later for my first appointment with the doctor who would do the aspiration. Now this procedure is not for the faint of heart—at least any who faint at the sight of needles.
After putting on a hospital gown, I lay down on the examining table and he produced a needle approximately eight inches long (no exaggeration)! (Well, maybe it only seemed that long to me but it was long.) They sterilized and numbed the site of insertion and placed the needle through into the cyst on my liver, then extracted the fluid. I chose not to watch and didn’t feel much discomfort during the procedure. Next, as though on a spit, they rotated me on each side, in turn and reintroduced the needle and did the extraction—four times. It was some comfort that a camera helped them know where to guide the needle.
Well, when they finished and I dressed in my street clothes and I walking to my car I checked myself. NO PAIN! That hadn’t happened for several months. What a relief. I’m not sure if my feet touched the ground as I returned to my car.
But, alas, in two or so months, the pain returned. Back I went to the doctor’s office for a repeat procedure. Relief for another two months. Then back for another procedure. But this one was different in that after they’d finished, I fainted. I didn’t know I did until I came to and realized someone was placing me back on the examining table. Of course, they gave me a few moments to recover then I was escorted to the doctor’s office and he told me they wouldn’t be doing another one because of the possibility of a life-threatening infection. I left, pain free, wondering what I would do in when the pain returned.
I looked to the only place available for an answer—God.
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