My uncle Woody in Santa Barbara opted for surgery to alleviate back pain. Leaving the operating table, this morphine pump was waiting for him in his room. I guess it was anticipated he would be in severe pain; the morphine was soon dripping into my uncle’s vein, no questions asked. As the anesthesia began to wear off, the pain started to wear on my uncle and by the next morning, this rather large bottle of industrial-strength pain killer called Morphine was nearly empty. Vicodin did nothing, Percocet in pairs came to the rescue, putting my uncle in a strangely bemused state. The pain remained so strong that I left Santa Barbara on Sunday with him still in the hospital.