It’s been 20 minutes since I took the pill. My body’s beginning to settle down. My shoulders are relaxing. I’m beginning to feel more like I can live in this world. It feels like a gift, an invisible pouring out of peace, a prayer answered, a righting of wrongs.
This is about addiction. It’s been a month since my back surgery, I still hurt some, but it’s manageable. And you can’t keep on with these pills forever, right? I started skipping a pill, trying different times of day. That didn’t seem to bother me too much. So I decided to skip a second one, substituting, as I had been directed, two Tylenol. I picked nighttime, thinking I could sleep through any adverse reaction. I got in bed. Snuggling in, I realized I felt as if a more appropriate action would be to run a marathon. I flipped over—carefully, since I have rods and screws in my back and I must not twist yet. I flipped again. And again. I got up and took Melatonin. That usually does it. I fell asleep for maybe ten minutes, then it was back to the marathon. I slid my legs up and down, wiggled my toes, circled my ankles, small movements trying not to disturb Jerry. I had to get up. I walked through our moonlit apartment, back and forth, every nerve firing.
I’m telling you, it's not exactly fear. Not exactly paranoia. Not exactly anything. But it’s terrible. I wonder if other addicts would have a way to describe it, the deep need of the body for some unnamable rescue, combined with a feeling that there is no rescue, no salvation, because it’s not clear what you need saving from. Anxiety has no referent.
About 3:30, time enough past the Tylenol to be safe, I finally took a Norco. To say I “had to” take it is an understatement. If there had been a chain link fence between me and the Norco, I would have climbed it, and I’m 79.
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To put this in context, I had had to wait a long time both to see the surgeon and to actually have the surgery. Months. Toward the end, I hurt so much that I borrowed a walker to take the pressure off my back. “What can you give me for this pain?” I asked my doctor. Tramadol didn’t work. Norco did, to some extent. Thus began the journey of the little chemical buggers, bags packed for a long stay, toward my brain, where they contently Velcroed themselves to a convenient motel room.
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What was “wrong” with my back is called spondylolisthesis, a forward movement of a vertebra out of its proper position. (Not the same as a slipped disk). When the bones begin to press on nerves, there’s nothing to do but surgery.
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Back to my night of hell. I took the Norco and fell asleep after a while. The next day I called the surgeon’s P.A. How do you do this, I asked? He made several suggestions—gradually stretch out the time between doses, or cut a pill in half for some doses, etc. At the moment, I’m continuing a bit longer with missing one dose. That night scared me into going very slowly.
Now to the point of this post: I was given a shiny blue packet of materials outlining pre-surgery steps. No question was left unanswered. I was given a bottle of antiseptic wash plus a bottle of special Ensure to drink before I went to the hospital. I was in every way prepared.
But when surgery was over—just go home, take your pills. Call if you have problems. Not one word about the use and misuse of opiods. It’s true, that was monitored by my being given only 24 pills at a time. I have to call the doctor’s office for each new prescription.
But consider: I took Norco for at least a couple of months before surgery. That’s a lot of time. The little chemical buggers have already picked out the colors for their personal motel rooms in my brain. Maybe some people don’t get addicted easily. Apparently, I am not one of them.
I’m smart. I read stuff. I should have known. But what if I weren’t smart, or what if I just plain needed continuing help for pain? But eventually, comes time to send the buggers packing. I was given no advice as to how to evict them without a major uprising. No warning, nothing.
I feel sure that in a short while a better pain reliever than opioids will be invented. I know it’s in the works. In the meantime, for heaven’s sake, this issue needs to be a significant part of the shiny blue packet we’re given.
The P.S.
I’m down to 3/day now. Sometime this week I’ll cut the third pill in half. Moving along.