Back to being a simple wino, thank god

Having weaned myself off the Vicodin yesterday so I could safely drive to work this morning, I am happily able to once again indulge in a little red wine in the evening. It's very satisfying indeed.

Yesterday I mentioned to one of my clients my lack of love for the Vicodin, and she replied "oh, I must confess I don't mind the occasional slight buzz!"

Neither do I, said I. I just prefer to get it from a nice glass of red.

Morphine derivatives have been known to make members of my immediate gene pool talk to the walls, fixate anxiously on their next dose, and invite the surgeon up to their hospital room for a nice buffet lunch. My family and the morphine family, we just don't mix. We're like the Hatfields and the McCoys.

Oddly enough, I adopted a dog with the same problem. I'm pretty certain we don't share any recent ancestors, and without complex language she can't really communicate her experience; but Nelly very clearly has some sort of psychotropic response to morphine compounds. It's the canine equivalent of talking to the walls - and the vet long ago marked her file with a big red sticker: Avoid morphine if possible.

Sometimes you need the big guns, and when Nelly was hit by a car and she was bleeding into her belly with a hole in her lungs and a gash on her head - they gave her the good stuff. Better to chat with your imaginary friends in a case like that if it means relief from pain. And so, I took the Vicodin briefly this week. But skittered away from it as quick as possible.