I don’t know how long I have been looking at the dropper delivering morphine to his arm. This clear and purified liquid is going inside his body, drop by drop into his vein, seeking to reach the membrane’s cells and find the perfect receptors to alter their shape, stimulating them enough to effect the molecular changes and distort his perception of pain. But his brain and his spinal cord refuse to cooperate and the transmission of painful stimuli from his intestines hasn’t decreased. I can see it in his face, through his closed eyes, in his distorted smile, and most of all, in an almost inaudible murmuring escaping from his lips. The pain is reluctant to leave or even to dull a little bit.
In a hypnotic state I talk to each drop as it falls from a hanging plastic bag to a tiny pool next to the needle injected in his arm. “You’re the one,” I say. “Find your way. Bind to the opioid receptors and do your job.” With patience I explain to them how important it is to understand their mission, but they don’t listen, they ignore me. Ah, maybe that’s why the pain is still on him. Maybe even now and after so many explanations I don’t really understand this at all. Something about endocytosis, cellular diffusion, nerve tissue, neurons and synapses all whirling inside my head without making any sense. Maybe my starving mind is incapable to remember, to think clearly, unable to stop this madness. But who in his right mind can make sense of anything next to a hospital bed? Perhaps if I make myself to break from the spell and leave the room to find some food...
- * -
Two days ago and after they hooked his arm to a tree of drugs I asked his doctor, why morphine? Why her? I ask myself as thousands of images invade my mind. So many horror stories of drug addition, so many movies with sad endings, so many families destroyed, countless lives incinerated, dissolved in tears and anguish. He’s sick, really sick and on top of it morphine?
In my mother tongue Morphine is a she, a beautiful and powerful lady capable to kidnap anybody’s soul, transform people into her puppets, or just let them become one more Sleeping Beauty. How could I invite her to invade his body and our lives without understanding why? But he’s in pain; terrible pain and I can’t deny it to him. He needs her. He needs her bad.
Morphine is an analgesic that decreases perception of pain, a strong pain reliever. We’re giving him enough to block the transmission of pain signals so his body can concentrate on getting better. It’s only for a few days, no more than 10mg., perfect dosage for his weight. (Is he talking about his brand new weight? The fifty pounds lighter than three weeks ago?) You don’t have anything to worry about. The analgesic effect will ensue almost immediately, and then he will rest. I promise you.
Ah, so we are not talking addition. I’m beginning to get it. This lady has two faces like everybody else, and we’re not talking about her ugly one. So, maybe she could alter the expression of genes for proteins involved in mitochondrial respiration and some cytoskeleton proteins, which is not good at all, but with the same ease, this lady can do something similar to the dentritic cells and mess with the cytokines -the ones maybe responsible for all this chaos in the first place. It’s better to believe that than the possibility of me passing the faulty gene to him. Another sex-link trait perhaps? One of those that involves kings, queens, and looks glamorous on the silver screen but doesn’t have a place in the life of a sixteen years-old soul. A little relief comes with the doctor’s words and smile. Morphine’s not so bad after all. Somebody discredited her and I believed it. Now I want to know the other side of her, the good side of this lady. I want to know the one who is helping my son.
- * -
I don’t know how long I have been looking at the dropper delivering enchantment to his arm. This cloudless and wholesome liquid is going inside his body, tear by tear into his vein, reaching enough neurons, finding the gaps, confusing the neurotransmitters and distorting his perception of pain. The magic begins. Between her spell and my new mantra my mind goes blank once more, a perfect state to grasp and believe -Ohm, neuronnns, dentriiites, axooonnn, synaaaapseee; ohm, neuronnns, dendriiites, axooonnn, synaaapseee; ohm…
At last, at last the Dream Lady’s magic arrives, he smiles, and I smile too. Closed eyes, moving lips, “sarasha, sarasha, I can’t remember what sarasha is. Do you know? I need to know. I don’t know why, but it’s very important.” I’m confused again. Almost two full days without talking and saracha is what is on his mind. Closed eyes, moving lips, “goggle it please, I need to know.” “Do you know what’s saracha, maybe it nothing, he’s dreaming you know? Morphine dreams always seem so interesting.” “I found it!” I shout like I just find the Holy Grail! It’s a Thai hot sauce I say to the nurse hoping he will hear me too. He does. He laughs pleased, we laugh too. “I know you’re laughing too Dream Lady, so please keep doing your magic. ”
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