As I lay looking up the Texas-shaped water splotch on the ceiling — the one I’ve been meaning to paint over for approximately two years now — I wondered how I could possibly be so miserable when just yesterday I had lain in the very same place, looking up at the very same Texas-shaped water splotch, and been perfectly content. I had been perfectly happy, even. Maybe, even happier than I had been in a long time.
But as I writhed in pain and clutched my throbbing head, with my vision blurring in and out of focus and the Texas-shaped water splotch becoming less emblematic of the “Lone Star State” and more emblematic of a just any old water splotch on the ceiling, I remembered something. And then I knew exactly why.
Because yesterday, I was on drugs.
Now, before you make your judgments — as we all tend to do, whether we mean to or not, but really can’t help, considering how deeply the tendency seems to be ingrained in our human DNA — consider this:
I wasn’t on the “Dazed & Confused” kind of drugs.
I wasn’t on the “Scarface” kind of drugs.
And I certainly wasn’t on the “Requiem for a Dream” kind of drugs. (For those of a younger generation, let’s use “Pineapple Express,” “Blow” and uh… “Requiem for a Dream” for reference.)
I was on the legal kind of drugs. The “Welcome to CVS” kind of drugs. The “Would you like a bag for that?” kind of drugs. The “Do you have any questions for the pharmacist?” kind of drugs.
After a surfing injury and a “Z-fracture” to my left collarbone in which it was broken into four separate pieces, I had seven screws and a metal plate drilled into my shoulder, like it was step No. 11 on the IKEA directions for putting together a birch veneer Billy Bookcase. (Side note: little did I know how close those screws could have easily pushed me to a very different kind of step No. 12).
Walking around with that kind of hardware, I was gonna need some — for lack of a better term — “relief.” That’s when I got introduced to painkillers… or, I guess I should say, re-introduced.
I had been prescribed some kind of similar narcotic after an emergency appendectomy when I was 18 and ended up never even opening the bottle, and then prescribed another dosage a couple of years later, after I had my wisdom teeth pulled, which pretty much just put me to sleep and was only a hand full of pills anyway.
Even so, it’s not like I have an addictive personality. I don’t smoke cigarettes. I’m good with one cup of coffee in the morning. And, believe it or not, I only drink socially and (for the most part) responsibly.
But that didn’t stop all the warnings.
“You have to be careful with those painkillers, now.”
“Did you hear about the Joneses’ son who…”
“Did you hear about the Smiths’ daughter who…”
“Isn’t it just awful?”
“Isn’t it just terrible?”
“Can you believe it?”
I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it when I got my first script for 30 pills before the surgery. I couldn’t believe it when I got another one a few days later (you know, “for the pain”).
It was 50 oxycodone here, 30 hydrocodone there. I got pretty familiar with how it all worked. With the system. I was pronouncing names to pharmacists that I didn’t even know I could say, cashing in prescriptions like they were winning scratch-offs and popping painkillers like they were Pez.
My middle-school French teacher (yes, I took French — let’s move past it) would have been rolling over in her grave (assuming that she is now deceased, of course) listening to four-syllable medical jargon roll off my tongue so effortlessly after spending the better part of three years listening to me struggle to pronounce whatever the French word for grapefruit is. (It’s pamplemousse.)
But just as there was a reason for my differing perspectives of the water splotch, there was an equally evident one for why it was so easy for me to pronounce the word “oxycodone.”
Because, I liked it.
It’s all almost just a blur, now. The days. The hours. The pain. The warnings. But, to the best of my recollection, the whole things went a little something like this:
Pill No. 1:
Five minutes in. Nothing. Fifteen minutes in, even, and we’re still good (aside from the searing pain, that is). Then, finally, right when it’s getting unbearable, right when you’re thinking, “Well, maybe this is it?” right when you least expect it, the pain is just gone. It doesn’t slowly slide away. There’s nothing gradual about it. One second it’s there, and the next second, it’s just gone. It’s washed away like it was the easiest thing in the world to do.
Then, almost as quickly as it disappeared, it comes back. But it doesn’t come back as itself. It comes back as something else completely. It’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde… and it feels good not to be Dr. Jekyll anymore.
Everything slides away. Everything is exactly as it should. You can’t believe it. The couch gets softer. The Adam Sandler movie gets funnier. The temperature is so perfect that you forget that it can ever even be too hot or too cold or too this or too that. Everything fades away. And then, the clock begins to fade away too…
Pill No. 2:
It’s the same thing. Except this time, you’re waiting for it. This time, you’re ready. This time, you want it. You start feeling it before it even hits. It’s anticipatory. It’s the placebo effect, until it’s not. You’re Mr. Hyde now. Because Dr. Jekyll has a schedule. Dr. Jekyll has responsibilities. Dr. Jekyll lives by other things besides the bottle.
Nothing matters except what’s right here. Nothing matters besides what’s right now. The phone doesn’t ring, but you don’t care. When it does ring, you still don’t care. Maybe you care less.
Pill No. 3… and pill No. 4:
Time has returned, but it is not your friend. It moves slowly. It taunts you. It keeps you from pill No. 3, and pill No. 3 is the only thing that matters. You know this. You know what happened to the Joneses’ son, to the Smiths’ daughter; but, still, you are still in control. Because you don’t have “an addictive personality.” Because you are not a drug addict. Because you are not Brett Favre.
Now, that Brett Favre, he had a problem. Those celebrities and their drugs. Those famous athletes and their drugs. It’s awful. It’s terrible. Can you believe it? You’re not Brett Favre, so you take pill No. 3 a little earlier than scheduled, this time. You can’t believe it, so you take pill No. 4 too.
Pill No. 5 and 6, pill No. 7 and 8, pill No. 9 and 10:
Pill No. 5 and 6 come even earlier this time. So do pill No. 7 and 8. The sun goes down as the Adam Sandler movies blur into each other. Haven’t I seen this one already? Or does he just play the same character every time?
You are no longer Dr. Jekyll. You are no longer Mr. Hyde. You are fading away. You are nodding off. You are hoping that you can sleep through the night. Not because you’re scared of the darkness. Not because the Adam Sandler marathon is over. Because the bottle is getting much lighter now. Because you want it to stay full.
There are no more clocks. There are no more calendars. There is only that bottle. Then you sleep, a dreamless sleep, your mind drifting with glowing orange bottles and glowing falling clocks…
Day 2:
On Day 2, the pain comes back. It comes back angrier this time. The nerve blockers have worn off. The anesthesia is as distant a memory as yesterday, which all seems so perfect now. But nostalgic longing is quickly washed away by two more pills. Two more pills puts you to sleep, just long enough for the next pill to start calling.
Then, after breakfast (which you force down): see Pill No. 5 and 6, pill No. 7 and 8, pill No. 9 and 10:
Day 3: See Day 2.
Day 4: See Day 3.
Day 5: There’s only two more pills left. How did this happen, though? You were so careful, though? You listened to all the warnings, though? The Joneses, though? The Smiths, though?
You are awake at 6 a.m. The world is waking up, too. They are walking their dogs. They are brewing their coffee. But you — but I, I have nothing to do. I have nothing to do except for fight the urge to take these last two pills. It’s Tuesday, I think. My doctor’s appointment is on Thursday, I think. Then, I’ll get another prescription. Then, everything will be OK. Then, everything will fade away.
I wait until the pain is too much to bear. I wait until Mr. Hyde won’t leave me alone. Then, I reluctantly take the last two pills. They reluctantly slide down my throat. The pain reluctantly fades away. After a few hours, nothing is as it should be.
The rest of Day 5, Day, 6, the beginning of Day 7: It’s all almost just a blur, now. But to the best of my recollection, the first round of withdrawal went a little something like this: The pain comes back, but it is nothing compared to the lack of narcotics flowing through my bloodstream, and you feel empty and full at the same time, and all in the worst way. Your head throbs. Your eyes throb. Things you didn’t know you had throb.
The temperature throbs too hot. The temperature throbs too cold. The room spins. The room does nothing. Nothing is right. Everything is wrong. Is this really all there is? Then: Wait a minute. I think it’s time for my doctor’s appointment. Then: Wait a minute. I think it’s Thursday.
Thursday: Thursday is a beautiful day. You know, Doc, now that you mention it, on a scale of 1 to 10, the pain is definitely still a 10. Yeah, definitely a 9 or a 10. Probably a 10. I know, I can’t believe it either. Better up the ante this time. I think these pills are too plain. Better whip out the ol’ script pad, eh? What are we talkin’ here? Percs? Norcs? 30? 50? Yeah, better make it 50, this time. Thanks, Doc, but you see I really must be going now. There’s much to do now. It is Thursday, after all.
I’m starting to get weird looks at CVS. They know me by name. I don’t care. Just give me the orange bottle, lady. I’ve got Adam Sandler movies to watch, lady. No, I don’t have any questions for my pharmacist, lady. Well, maybe one. The pharmacy is open seven days a week, yes?
The next day, the next week, the next???
And it goes on and on. Like a flat circle. Everything that you have done, you are destined to do again. That is, until you finally make it stop. That is, if you can.
I don’t know how to make it stop. I do know that, somehow, I did. I do know that the next step would have been trying score another bottle without a prescription, without health insurance (which can typically run you about 25 bucks a pill, and considering how easily those pills tend to run out, would have gotten pretty expensive).
I also know that other drugs are much cheaper and easier to get. And that a lot of people who’ve gone through a surgery or an injury much like mine — everyday people like you and me, like the Joneses, like the Smiths — start “chasing the dragon” when the scripts run out. I’m talking about dope, smack, junk, “Big H,” horse, black tar, brown sugar, China white, Mexican mud… I’m talking about heroin.
That’s crazy right? Heroin? That’s like a hard drug. That’s like a Requiem-for-a-Dream-Jared-Leto-getting-his-arm-cut-off-and-Jennifer-Connelly-turning-to-prostitution-just-for-another-quick-fix type of drug. That could never happen here. That could never happen to me. I just can’t believe that.
Believe it. Because it happens. Here. Everywhere. After the “Hillbilly Heroin” runs out, people are turning to the hard stuff. People are shooting up. People are tying off. One in 15 painkiller users will turn to heroin eventually (drugabuse.gov).
No one’s to blame, really. I don’t blame the doctor, who’s just doing his job. I don’t blame the pharmacist, who’s just doing hers. I don’t blame the pharma reps or Obama or corporate America or any of the patsies or any of the scapegoats.
Unfortunately, medicine is a business. And in business, what’s right financially will always come before what’s right morally. Scripts will be written, sometimes irresponsibly. New drugs will be pushed. By doctors. By reps. By corporate America. And questions for the pharmacists will go unasked.
Eventually, my shoulder will heal. Eventually, I will get used to the screws and the metal plate. But I don’t know that I’ll ever forget that I saw at least at least 14 other people being wheeled in and out of surgery that day and that, statistically, 1 out of 13 of them is destined for a 12-step program. I just hope that they make it that far, because we all know about what happened to the Joneses’ son, and to the Smiths’ daughter…