Mother’s little helper ain’t what it used to be.

Any relief I get from taking codeine and morphine is superseded by the guilt about the real or perceived damage I’m inflicting on my little one.

But I’m simply in too much pain to function, think, or even breathe. The halfway mark is approaching, and I don’t want to spend the next 20 weeks on narcotics. For the most part I try to hold off for as long as possible before I pop a pill, but I’m this ( – ) close to admitting myself back into hospital so I can get a dose of morphine to lower the volume on the pain from nerve-jangling throbbing to something a little less crazy-making.

When I’m playing superwoman (and opting out of downing a tab), my coping methods involve Lamaze-inspired breathing techniques and pacing. These don’t lessen the pain by any means, but they certainly distract.

There’s also the worry about the prolonged damage to my liver. Dr. Freedman assures me that it would take more than the occasional Tylenol 3 to ruin me, but it’s still a concern. No matter how beneficial these drugs are in the short term, the long-term implications weigh on my mind.