Through The Fog

So here's the deal. We've been in Mexico for the wedding of an old friend of our son, now living there for about ten years, and making a living as a successful fashion photographer. His wife, a Mexican beauty of staggering proportions, is someone we'd met a couple of times up here in the northlands, and is as warm and impressive as she is gorgeous.

Her dad is evidently a well-known, respected, and highly successful businessman, who put on a wedding the likes of which I'd never seen before and won't ever again. If I gave a shit at this point, I'd write more about it.

What did he just say? "If I gave a shit?" Well, here's the deal. Without going into details and explanations, while in Mexico I managed to damage my back to such a degree that I was bedridden for a few days, during which time, as I contemplated the impossibility of managing the complexities of getting home, I figured the only solution was to kill myself, and let Judy bring me home in some sort of ceramic container. I didn't see any downside.

Well, with the passage of time, and what might have been hilarious under other circumstances, the delivery to our room of drugs in the care of a house-call doc in six inch heels and bearing impressive décollatage, the wearing of a back brace, and a reasonably high pain tolerance (tested to the max), I managed to make the trip to that wedding and, a day or two later, back home.

However I'm still needing the help of mild narcotics. Thus the ungiving of a shit. In med school I had my hand operated on for a rugby injury incurred when I went back to my college for a weekend and played against my former team because the opponents were down a man. In the recovery room I got a shot of demerol, and it made me understand the meaning of the word "euphoria." I never took another shot, nor did I when I had my ankle operated on years later. Too appealing. In times like these, even more. And whereas codeine is nothing like demerol, I'm finding myself a little less concerned about the world around me.

Or maybe it's the pain itself, indescribably less than a few days ago, but omnipresent. (When it happened, the most intense pain I've ever experienced, from which I actually passed out -- unprecedented for me -- I recall a millisecond's worth of thinking things would never be the same.) Or, maybe, the trip which was fun before the fall, as it were, and made me want to rethink my priorities. Or maybe it was a recent comment on this here blog. Anyhow, whereas I'm still paying a degree of attention, it's happily attenuated. I'm about ready to try getting along on ibuprofen alone, and want to as soon as possible.

After which, presumably, the misery will switch from the physical back to the mental: the perfect state for blogging.

P.S: Had it not been for the lucky presence of another good friend of our son, and a guy who's been in many ways a godson or something, and who speaks fluent Spanish, and who helped Judy in many ways (and too many other wedding attenders to count), I might have had to execute, as it were, plan A. So, thanks Britt. And to anyone else planning to visit Mexico, I recommend taking Britt along. It'd be a good time.

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