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Woe is me By Avner Bernheimer I couldn't fall asleep. My entire right side, from temple to eye, jaw, neck and shoulder, was throbbing like a pain-wracked heart ripped right out of the chest by the claws of a maniacal killer. I thought one Nurofen would take care of it, so I got up, swallowed a pill and returned to bed, feeling optimistic. But the pain was more optimistic than I. Half an hour later, when the pill had failed miserably at its mission, I got up to take another one, and after another half hour I took an Acamol, too. Throughout this time, my husband did not wake up, nor did I wake him to take me to the emergency room. There was no point. No one could save me. I felt like the pain would never go away, that it was taking up permanent residence. Advertisement The night just wouldn't pass. The pills had a negligible effect, and I tried to muster all my mental energies to fight the pain. I tried to concentrate hard on it in order to break it down, but it kept eluding me. I tried to picture it as an object that could be vanquished and then blown to bits, but that didn't help either. The pain held firm against all my efforts at guided imaging. I couldn't fall asleep because I couldn't summon the faith that it would eventually pass. My wakefulness actually gave me the slim hope that I would somehow manage to wrest control over the fog of pain that was suffocating me. The loss of control that comes with sleep, normally its most pleasurable aspect, was now akin to death in my thinking. Another Acamol, another Nurofen, a time-release Abitren 100. All this led only to thoughts of morphine and a Hollywood-type addiction to painkillers. I once became addicted to Assival, thanks to an orthopedist friend who tried to relieve my back pain, which finally disappeared after a regimen of regular shiatsu treatments, better emotional maintenance and swimming. For three years now, my back hasn't hurt even once. Which isn't to say that the two weeks on Assival weren't among the most delightful in my life. Free of anxiety and pain, I lived from day to day, from pill to pill, in a leisurely stupor - until my allotted ration of pills ran out and I started turning the city upside down in search of another dose. The orthopedist dealer was off enjoying himself in Berlin and other doctors I knew were not forthcoming, so I had to go cold turkey. My pain threshold is exceedingly low. Yes, now you know. Twice in my life I have even passed out from pain. The first time I was 17, in the kitchen of my good friend Aharoni (not the chef). As usual, I'd forced him to engage in Greco-Roman wrestling just so I could eventually surrender in his arms - which were in training at the time for an elite combat unit - but he twisted my arm and I found myself lying on the floor, listening to the hysterical laughter of Anat, my friend from high school. When I came to, I was pleased to find that Aharoni was worriedly supporting my upper body, and I also realized that Anat wasn't laughing but actually sobbing hysterically. She'd seen my eyes roll back in my head and couldn't grasp how I could just up and die on her like that before making out a will to her benefit. The second time was in the army. It was my first week of guard duty, a nightmare that was supposed to repeat itself once every couple of months until I rose in rank. "Sit, sit, I'll open it," I said to the friendly reservist who was with me in the guard post. I opened the big iron gate, the bottom of which was 30 centimeters off the ground, gave the operations officer a crisp salute and let his car pass through. So pleased was I with my success at accomplishing this complex mission that I nonchalantly gave the iron gate a push and walked about half a meter in front of it, thinking it would shut behind me by itself. "What happened?" I asked the reservist when I awoke in his arms. He explained that the gate was quicker than I, that my army boot had gotten caught between the gate and the road, that my ankle had twisted a little bit and I'd passed out. It was worth it in the end, though: It was the first and last time that I was given guard duty, in three years of service. The morning found me tossing and turning in bed, floating between hallucinations and random thoughts but, unfortunately, far from being unconscious. When the hell did my pain threshold spike so steeply? Although it's been quite a few years since that guard duty incident, I always assumed I had this gentleman's agreement with my body, whereby it was ready to order a complete shutdown of consciousness the moment any pain became too much and to awaken me as soon as the danger passed. But no. Here I lay, writhing in agony, and right next to me in bed slept a strong man as soundly as a just-fed babe. Maybe I should wake him up after all, I thought. I'm just afraid that we'll fight. When he worries too much and I'm too irritable, it never ends well. About six months ago, when I was throwing up all night because of some bad fish from a fancy restaurant, I shouted at him all the way to the emergency room that he wasn't pressing the ambulance driver to turn on the siren and run the red lights because he didn't want me to hold on until we made it to Ichilov. The next afternoon, I was finally able to start envisioning an end to the nightmare. My dentist informed me that despite my regular checkups - thanks to the excellent dental insurance my father got for me - I needed three root canals and, as a bonus, I also had infections in both my upper and lower jaws. The first thing he did was give me horse-size antibiotics - 875 mg Augmentin, plus Narocin, a painkiller that specializes in toothaches. The next step was to refer me to a root canal expert, because he didn't want to mess with this mess himself. Not with me, at any rate. "But I don't understand. Why can't it be done under general anesthesia?" I kept insisting. "I have a tendency to pass out, you know." "Here," he handed me the referral letter. "Ask the specialist about it. And don't forget to come back to me in six months for a cleaning," he said, brushing me off with a smile. And I walked out wondering what happened to all the men in whose arms you used to be able to pass out. Bookmark to del.icio.us   Fragile cease-fire Olmert: Gaza cease-fire is fragile, may be short lived. Unbalanced stance Italy FM: EU stance on Israel in past swayed by intolerance.

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