Clocks
7:55 AM: Wake. Searing pain. Drool on the pillow. Reach over to the bottle conveniently on the night stand. It hurts to even move. Pill is in and while instructions say specifically not to chew, you chew anyway because it's faster. Close eyes and listen to the news until the edge is off.
8:15: In the shower with hot water. The best part of the day. Steam and heat relax everything.
9:15: Arrive at work. Not thinking about pain. Hoping for a day where you can just sit and veg. Or hoping for a case that's so intriguing that you can forget about your body.
10:00: Two more hours. Move from the chair to the couch. No relief. Stand up and walk. Sometimes that helps. Rolling down the hallway now, trying to find something interesting. Where's Wilson?
11:00: Trying to breathe deeply; more oxygen, less pain. Sit and hold a journal in your lap, but all you can think of is the next dose. Is it too soon? Will Wilson complain if you have to renew a few days early? Again. Bite your lip and tough it out. I'm bigger than this, I'm bigger than this.
11:45: Close enough. This time you're not going to chew. You have to trick yourself into swallowing it before your teeth get ahold of it.
11:46: Wait. Sit perfectly still and try to imagine that the throbbing isn't there. Cameron comes in, she's speaking. You react minimally. If you can sit there for another ten minutes, stock-still, then it won't hurt.
12:05: For one brilliant moment, there's no pain. A void where the pain used to be. Stomach muscles unclench and a small smile spreads across your face. What are you going to do when they don't work anymore?
2:00: You've managed to get through two hours of clinic duty. It's better when Cuddy catches you on the other side of the dose. It flew by. You check out and head back to your office. Right now there's balance. The pain's there, but it's not bothering you. Someone once said that humans don't have a memory of pain. You wish that could be you. One day you want to be sitting around, doing something boring and mundane trying to remember what this pain felt like.
3:00: Your thumb tries to find the pressure point. That part of your leg is permanently bruised. Sometimes, when you can really get in there, you can release enough endorphins to stop the pain momentarily. Usually not though. It's a slot machine that rarely pays off. Maybe this time.
4:15: Trapped. Cameron has cornered you and insists that you discuss this case with her. She's asking pointed questions and you need all of your concentration to answer. You need a dose, but you can't stand the thought of the look in her eyes when you swallow the pill. Besides, you want to be sitting on the sofa when it takes effect, not standing around. There are only so many good moments in the day, it would be a waste to have one while you were dealing with a work issue.
5:00: Finally, it kicks in. In about fifteen minutes you'll drive home and you can have a drink. It's not a problem. Lots of people have a cocktail before dinner.
6:30: The scotch is smooth as it slides down your throat and into your stomach. The warmth spreads through as fingers dance over the keys. The music swirls around you and your fingers go where your brain has forgotten. Familiar, the same movements, the same notes, the same songs. Stuck in one point in time. Beyond memory and experience. Lost to physical sensation. Bliss.
8:00: That late four o'clock dose messed up your schedule, but you want to get to bed early tonight. Down it goes, over-lapping with the last dose. It's so good, no pain, no waiting. Your show is on and you get sucked into the drama. Pretty people with pretty problems. Your brain turns off and all there is is the flickering blue light of the television.
11:00: The last one of the day. Hello friend. Chased down with a tumbler of scotch. Your leg is propped up on the pillow with the heating pad. The air conditioner on full blast to counteract the heat. You pray for sleep to overtake you quickly. Please let me sleep. To pass the next few hours dreamlessly.