On the last day of my grandsons’ week-long visit, Saturday, I was struck by bone pain of an unsurmised ferocity. I reeled around the cave swearing with incredulity. Shoulders, shoulder blade, ribs, the right arm more or less useless. The day before I had looked in the mirror and found a mass on my neck I hadn’t noticed before, hard to the touch yet tender. Yes, by all means bring it down to Marseille, said the oncologist via email, and I’ll have a look at it. And while I’m at it, I’ll prescribe a stronger morphine dose. How about Monday afternoon?
Up till then I was on 40 milligrams of slow, long-acting morphine twice a day plus a reserve of fast-acting morphine for emergencies. For some reason the village pharmacy is tightfisted with the long-acting morphine capsules yet fantastically generous with these quick-acting ones, of which I have such an abundance that I gave them out last year as Christmas presents.
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