Having been in a hospital for a serious injury, I understand injecting pain medication into a drip. OTOH after my accident I was on a strict 4 hours between morphine doses. And they were really strict. Really strict.
I was hit by a car crossing the street. My left leg was broken. (I also had a depressed skull fracture, but that’s another story)
Anyway, after having my tibia reamed with a giant corkscrew, they put a “pin” in it. The skull fracture caused me no issues. Nor the reconstructive work on my face. But the leg was fucked. At first they gave me Demerol. But that didn’t help much. Then I was on morphine. Just enough to kill the pain for a short while. When the pain started to dig in it was usually about ten or fifteen minutes before the next shot.
Now I know that hospitals have to be careful with drugs like morphine. I understand the addictive issues. But that last ten minutes were HELL. I’d start to feel the pain and knew I was in for some fun. I tried so very much to ride it out.
There is a part of the book Misery, by Stephen King, in which the main character talks about picturing his pain. He sees it as a post from an old pier. When the pain was away he could barely see the top of the post in the water. But when the pain started coming back it was like the tide going out. You couldn’t stop it. It just happened.
I completely understand this.
I felt the pain coming back. And I knew it would be BAD. Around the ten minute mark I’d ask a nurse if they were going to give me a shot. They would walk away. But they would be back.
“Your chart says you get a shot at XX:XX it’s not that time yet.”
Then the pain would take over. It didn’t get bad fast. Oh fuck no. It crept up on you. I knew it was really bad when I broke out in a sweat. Literally sweat pouring off me. Like the water in my body had had it with the fucking pain. And maybe I considered suicide. But did not have the means or the wherewithal.
Then the nurse came in with my shot. And I got it. And I FUCKING LOVED HER for a while.
The only time I got a shot a bit early was when my father and mother were visiting. They saw me sweating and asked why. I told them a version of the above story. My father was not an emotional man. But he left the room. And shortly there was a nurse with a shot, before my time. My father returned. His face was bright red. His eyes were red. He had been crying.
I think I know what happened. Although I never asked and he never explained.
The point I lost in the above is, I guess, drip meds work in some cases. Sometimes they don’t.
Edit: Wow. This is really the wrong thread for a drunken screed like this. Sorry all. And especially sorry to Nesrie. This had nothing to do with what you wrote. My bad.