There it sits. One lonely Endone, rattling around in the bottom of the pill bottle like the last Malteser in the box.
I probably don’t need it.
The sharp pain has dulled into more of a constant background whinge — a bit like my kids when I tell them the iPad’s are going off. But still, there’s something about having that last pill that feels… powerful.
This is the internal debate every hernia dad faces:
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Responsible Adult Me: “You’re fine. Save it. You’ll be proud of yourself for not needing it.”
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Tired Dad Me: “Mate, you’ve earned this. You survived surgery, the recovery, and three kids under six trying to use your body like a trampoline.”
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Designer Me: “Deadlines hurt more than the hernia right now. Pop it, and power through those quotes.”
The Weight of One Little Pill
It’s not just pain relief; it’s a golden ticket. One small tablet that could mean lifting Bluey figurines off the floor without groaning like I’m auditioning for a role in Beverly Hills Chihuahua . One tablet that could mean reading bedtime stories without pausing halfway through because my insides feel like they were being redecorated by a toddler with crayons..
And of course, there’s the psychological part: the comfort of knowing I can take it. That option being there is half the battle. Once it’s gone, I’m on my own. Just me, my scar tissue, and a box of Panadol and Nurofen pretending it’s useful.
Dad Logic vs. Real Logic
Logically, I don’t need it. The worst has passed, the stitches are holding, and the surgeon would probably nod approvingly if I said I hadn’t touched the Endone in days.
But then there’s Dad Logic: the warped survival strategy you develop when raising three kids under six. Dad Logic says: If there’s one chance to make tonight’s bedtime smooth, you take it. If there’s one way to get through tomorrow without groaning as you bend to click car seats into place, you take it
The Final Curtain
So yes, I’ll probably take it. Not because I’m weak, not because I need it, but because sometimes you just want to feel like the strongest bloke in the room — even if the room is only the kids’ bedroom, and your competition is a two-year-old in Peppa Pig pyjamas.
When that Endone kicks in, I’ll sit back, relax, and enjoy my brief holiday from the hernia hangover. And then, tomorrow, it’s just me again. Dad, designer, hernia survivor… and maybe a little bit tougher for it.
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