Liquid Love

I just gave Julie an eyedropper-full of liquid oxycontin. She can’t speak or move very much anymore, and her eyes are mostly unfocused. But when she parts those pert lips and waggles her tongue back and forth, we know the pain is just too much.

After the blue liquid is squirted under her tongue, those lips close and form a rosebud, like she wants to give you a kiss, and she whispers, “Whoa, whoa,” which I hope means she’s getting some instant relief. When I stroke her face and kiss her cheek and coo at her, “I love you,” Julie’s smooth round face slowly spreads into an absolutely beatific smile.

Julie can still smile. She’s suffering unimaginable pain, so much that we may have to switch to morphine soon, but Julie can still summon the strength to smile at me. She loves her some Princess Rachella, that’s for sure. And she double-loves her some Ron, because the one time she was lucid this week was when she responded to the Visiting Nurse’s comment about how devoted her husband is.

“Oh, yes, he is,” she gasped.

Anyway, I wrote down the time I gave her the oxy on the meticulously-recorded notepad Ron has been using to document her meds. Just as I suspected, the time between doses is getting shorter and shorter. Is there such a thing as an oxy drip? Or is it time to go straight up morphine?

I don’t know. I’m tired. But I think I can do this. I can keep stroking that pretty face and gently squeezing those curled up hands. I can get through this.

I think.