"Please do not be alarmed," it said, "by anything you see or hear around you. We are now cruising at a level of two to the power of two hundred and seventy-six thousand to one against and falling, and we will be restoring normality just as soon as we are sure what is normal anyway. Thank you."
The Infinite Improbability Drive from The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, by Douglas Adams.
Yesterday, we got that sign we were looking for. I went to change BR's Fentanyl patches, and found he didn't have any on. That's never happened before, so it didn't even cross my mind as a possibility. I must have gotten distracted while changing them the last time. Fuck.
I'm kinda glad we've started the end-of-life conversation anyway. As BR becomes more and more tolerant of the opioids, his pain level will continue to rise. At some point we are going to have to make the call to take the dosage to a level that will leave him unconscious most of the day. I imagine that's when hospice will be called in.
Anyway, he isn't going down without a fight. We met with the pain management team yesterday and told them to schedule the cervical stimulator trial ASAP.