Reflections on my lost weekend.

On those rare occasions that I'm forced into hospital, I come away with a renewed take on our medical system that I would guess that the people inside the system have either ignored or become numb to over the years. I also learn a few things about myself.

They're big on pain medications in the hospital. One of the first questions they asked me was, "On a 1 to 10 scale, how much pain are you in?" I told them "4," which was honest. Mostly, I'm a "1 or 2" most days, so the sore hand was only a notch or two above normal. Almost immediately, they gave me 10 milligrams of Percocet and later an I.V. pain med that I didn't ask for but would like to have more of. I still felt the pain, but I no longer cared and the room took on a new dimension.

I guess the reason they like handing out pain meds is that a numbed patient is a happy one, and the less they hear from us the better for them. Pancreatitis Man in the bed next to me must have asked for a dozen pain pills in the 36 hours I was there. He was in a lot more pain than I was, and to my knowledge he never got the I.V. treatment. I should have suggested it to him.

I asked for a sleeping pill on Saturday night. Mostly because I had dozed off a few times during the day (from boredom) and felt like I'd have trouble sleeping. I've never taken prescription sleep aids before. The nurse said she had to call my doctor to get approval, which I figured was a formality. A sleeping patient is even less trouble than a pain-medicated one, so why wouldn't they want me to have one? They gave me Lunesta, which was mild. I took it at 10:30 and was awake again at 4:00. I figured on sleeping through till at least 8.

For some reason, I was sent home with a prescription for Oxycontin, the so-called "Hollywood Heroin." 30 pills, which seemed like a lot for someone who wasn't in all that much pain to begin with. With any luck, I'll end up like Belushi or Ledger and you'll find me passed-out on my bed in an unexplained fit of medically-induced expiration.

I'm a good patient but I'm sullen and moody when I'm confined. I should have been more sociable to the guy in the next bed, but the curtain was always drawn and he seemed to be sleeping most of the time. There's something about being unable to control my circumstances that is uncomfortable for me. That, and the idea that if I'm not around, things at home don't happen.

I worry about the cat, and from all appearances, he worries about me. I had to send mom home to feed him, and it took him a while to come out from his hiding place. When I got back, he went back to his "follow me around" routine and seemed to be comforted by my presence, as I was by his. It's a strange thing to explain.

Mostly though, it causes me to confront my mortality and the circumstance of not having anyone at home to take care of my life issues in the event of my untimely incapacitation. Mom isn't always going to be there for me to lean on and feed my cat when I'm not around.

What also scares me is that when I'm old and infirmed, I won't have anyone to lean on, talk to and comfort me in my sickness, and I'm sure the notion will eventually carve a few years off my life expectancy. But they're the crappy years at the end, so maybe it won't matter that much.

Whatever it is, I think the prospect of dying alone is perhaps the worst thing one can endure.