I was begging for painkillers — when I was craving for a happy life

A note from the writer

Fig 1.1

It was around 11 pm, 19th of October. I was lying semiconscious in the ICU, my body hooked up to machines that beeped frequently, marking time as it passed. The beep… beep… beep echoed around the room, a constant reminder that I was still here, but barely. The air smelled strongly of disinfectant — sharp and cold like the hospital was doing everything it could to keep things clean.

IV lines and tubes were attached to me, slowly pumping tramadol and a mix of other painkillers into my veins to dull the pain. Even with the medicine, my breath felt heavy, like something uncomfortable was waiting to hit. The machines kept beeping and clicking, and numbers changing, but none of it made any sense unless you had the charts in front of you — because it was hard to interpret for someone like me without medical knowledge.

Now look at the above graph 1.1. This visualizes the cycle of pain versus reaction when you’re dependent on painkillers for relief, emphasizing how critical it becomes when they stop working. Before 5 minutes, the pain gradually increases, and your reaction grows stronger. After 5 minutes, the pain and response intensify exponentially, showing how unbearable it becomes when the painkiller wears off, leading to frantic behavior like begging for the injection.

My chest rose and fell, each breath shallow and slow. Breathing wasn’t easy; each small inhale felt like it took everything I had. The smell of the hospital stayed in the air, always reminding me of where I was.

The beeping continued. My body, once full of life, now lay still in the bed as if it had forgotten how to move. There was a tension in the room, though, an unspoken feeling, like something was about to shift. The machines hummed a little louder, or maybe it was just the weight of the moment, but it felt like something was about to change.

HOW IT ALL STARTED?

During an ultrasound, which was done to investigate sudden pain in my lower right abdomen that turned out to be appendicitis, an unexpected discovery was made. The ultrasound revealed a 3.5 cm tumor in my left kidney, which was later confirmed as renal cell carcinoma (RCC) through a CT scan. This diagnosis came as a shock, especially since RCC was genetically inherited. What began as a check-up for appendicitis unexpectedly led to the accidental detection of a serious condition, marking the start of a challenging journey to understand and fight it.

I was admitted to the hospital. Surgery was planned. It was the day of the operation. I was asked to remove all the metal things I was wearing, and I did as instructed, trying to calm my nerves. A senior anesthesia doctor, wearing a blue gown and hat, came over to explain the anesthesia procedure. He spoke gently, reassuring me: “You’ll be injected with anesthesia, which will include morphine, and you’ll be put under full anesthesia. You won’t feel any pain.” His words gave me some comfort as I prepared for what was ahead.

After he left, about an hour later, two nurses from the operation team arrived to take me. They shifted me to the pre-operation (OT) room for observation. I could see a few other patients lying there, some of them already half asleep, waiting for their turn. The atmosphere felt strange, and time seemed to stretch longer than usual. After about half an hour, when it was almost my turn, I stopped one of the junior doctors and asked to speak with the doctor who would be performing my surgery. They called Dr. Sudeep, and I simply said, “I trust you, sir, everything is up to you.” He smiled and reassured me, saying, “Don’t worry, everything will be fine beta,” before the call ended.

I was then moved to the operating theater. As I was laid down on the operating table, I could see the robotic machines used for the surgery — it was going to be a robotic partial nephrectomy. The sight of those machines made it all feel more surreal.

The anesthesia doctor returned and injected me with an IV. As I lay there, one of the nurses started asking me a few questions: “What’s your name?” “What did you study?” “What do you like to eat?” I answered them, but those questions were the last thing I remembered before I drifted off.

The surgery went on for a straight 7.5 hrs. When I woke up, I found myself in the post-operation room, still semi-conscious. I saw Dr. Sudeep standing beside me, and at that moment, I just wanted to thank him. Though I was barely awake, I clearly remember the first question I asked him: “With what margin did you take out the RCC tumor?” He answered me with a number, though I couldn’t fully remember it at the time.

Before I could say anything else, I drifted off again, this time into a deeper sleep.

UNBEARABLE PAIN TOOK OVER ME

When I woke up, I was back in my private ward after the operation. The first thing I felt was an intense, unbearable pain in my stomach, right where the surgery had been done. The pain hit me like a wave, and I couldn’t hold it in. I started shouting at my father, “Please call someone! Bahut pain ho raha hai!”

It was around 9 pm, and the main doctor had already left for the day. My father rushed to get help, and within minutes, the emergency duty doctor was called. Things moved fast after that — I was immediately shifted to the High Dependency Unit (HDU). Everything felt like a blur; people were moving around me, and machines were beeping.

They gave me an injection with painkillers, and for a little while, I felt some relief. But as the effect began to fade, the pain came back — sharp and relentless. I started begging the nurse, “Please, give me the injection again!” But she refused, saying it could only be given after at least six hours, or it might harm my health.

I felt completely helpless. I could barely breathe, let alone move my body. My vision was blurry, and even speaking loudly was beyond me. The pain was so overwhelming that it felt like time had stopped, and all I could do was hope for the next dose of relief. It was one of the longest nights of my life.

The first day was a blur of pain and exhaustion, but I told myself things would improve.

However, the very next day, something unexpected happened. The abdominal drain that had been placed to remove waste after the operation began filling with blood — dark red, thick, and gushing in an alarming amount. It was as if my body was rebelling, and I could do nothing to stop it.

The nurses moved quickly, their voices urgent as they called the surgeon. My father stood frozen, his face pale, trying to stay calm, but I could see the fear in his eyes. Time seemed to stretch endlessly, each second a reminder of how fragile everything felt.

By 8 pm, the surgeon arrived, and there was no hesitation. I was wheeled into the operating theater again, this time for a re-exploration with open surgery with approximately a long cut of more than 5 cm on my left stomach. I developed a secondary hemorrhage. My mind was spinning with questions and fear, but my body was too weak to protest. The familiar brightness of the OT lights greeted me again, and just as before, the anesthesia swept me into deep sleep.

When I finally regained consciousness, I found myself in the ICU. It was around 11 pm. The first sensation was pain — unimaginable, all-consuming pain. It clawed at me from every direction, sharp and unrelenting. I screamed before I even realized it, my voice hoarse and broken. The machines kept beeping around me, their sounds blending into the background as the pain overwhelmed everything else.

The room was cold and sterile, but all I could feel was the burning, stabbing sensation in my abdomen. Every breath felt like a battle, every movement a new wave of torment. I could see nurses rushing around, their voices calm but firm, yet none of it registered. All I knew was the pain, raw and relentless, and the hope that someone — anyone — could make it stop.

In a deep, shaky voice, I begged the nurse for more painkillers. She gently told me that I was already on a 24/7 painkiller injection. But the truth was, it wasn’t helping much. Every time the injection ran out and the nurse had to replace it, the pain would hit me hard, unbearable, and intense, making those few minutes feel endless.

After spending days in the ICU and eventually being shifted back to the HDU as my condition improved, I found myself with an abundance of time to reflect on life. In the meantime, I got enough time to reflect upon my life. I started observing things happening around me very minutely.

And this changed everything

I watched people walking — just walking — and it struck me as the most beautiful, almost miraculous, thing. The ability to move freely, to place one foot in front of the other, seemed like a gift I had never truly appreciated. It was only when I couldn’t walk that I understood how much we overlook these simple, everyday blessings.

We live our lives rushing, striving, and yearning for what we don’t have, while the most fundamental joys — breathing, walking, seeing, feeling — slip by unnoticed. This realization taught me a profound lesson: gratitude lies not in grand achievements but in the ordinary moments we so often take for granted.

Life whispered to me then, asking, “Why wait for something to be taken away to cherish its value?” And I knew that moving forward, I wanted to treasure every step, every moment, and every breath with a deeper sense of awareness and gratitude