Drugs – in concert with the expert
hands of my surgeons – saved my life. It’s that simple.
When I showed up
at University of Maryland Shock Trauma, the doctors pulled out the big guns of
antibiotics and hooked me up. Drugs allowed doctors to keep me alive in the
short term while they figured out how to keep me alive in the long term. Drugs
made it possible for me to go into surgery as often as needed and remain
knocked out afterward, when I couldn’t have handled the pain. So I am deeply
thankful for pharmaceuticals. The problem is, the drugs seemed to be
never-ending, even for the small stuff.
Throughout my
hospitalization and into my home-based care, drugs were the go-to solution for
nearly every problem. Anemic? Take iron. Does the iron make you constipated?
Take this industrial-strength laxative. Does the laxative cause your innards to
explode like a number-two volcano? Here’s your potent anti-diarrheal. Does the
anti-diarrheal make you constipated again?
You get where I’m
going with this.
About midway through my hospital stay, once my infection (and my leg) were history, I remember being on a veritable truckload of meds. On the menu
were four different pain medications, two daily injections to prevent blood
clots, medicine to lower my blood pressure unless it was too low that day and
they had to do something to raise it, medication for my hypothyroid condition
that I explained had never worked for me but no one listened, an
anti-depressant, a multivitamin, Folic acid, Vitamin C, intravenous magnesium,
intravenous antibiotics for a urinary tract infection I acquired while
hospitalized, plus a whole bunch of other stuff I’ve forgotten because all
those drugs ruined my memory. But listen, even as I scoffed at the stranglehold
Big Pharma had on our health care system, I’d be thinking, don’t bogart
those opiate-based painkillers!
Those
of us who have experienced debilitating pain know that we will do anything to
make it stop. When you are in agony, nothing else works in your favor. You
can’t sleep or eat or talk or think. Your body can’t heal. So whatever they
wanted to give me for pain, I was on board. But the same drugs that dulled the
pain turned me into a zombie. (Not a flesh-eating zombie. I will never again use
that adjectival phrase with anything but reverence.)
The drug they gave
me for nerve pain made my hands and arms twitch and jump without warning, not
helpful if I wanted to hold a drink or dial my iPhone. (I think I once called a
very nice person in China.)
One drug made me
so sluggish I couldn’t wake up, which irritated nurses’ aids charged with
bathing an entire floor of patients before breakfast was served. Another drug
made me stare out the window – or at the TV – in a complete stupor, which certainly
helped to pass the time. It also helped me become a huge fan of “Keeping Up
With The Kardashians.”
Some
drugs made my fingers numb. Some drugs made my mouth unbearably dry. Some drugs
made me so squirrelly I couldn’t remember my kids’ names. Right about then, I
was almost sure I’d never be able to write again. I told Arleen to take my
laptop home because I wouldn’t be needing it.
Ever.
Then
there was the Xanax Pusher.
I’ll
talk more about this incident in future blogs, but here are the basics. The
rehab unit of my local hospital sent me home too weak to care for myself and before
my house was retrofitted for my needs. When the social worker said there was no
plan to provide home nursing or therapy, I said that was unacceptable and told
him to arrange for those support services. He told me that I had issues with
anger and anxiety. Within the hour, a psychologist was prescribing me Xanax, a
drug for panic disorder and anxiety. I refused to take it.
The day I was
discharged from the hospital, I came home with sixteen prescriptions,
including, no kidding, two industrial-strength laxatives and a big-ass vial of generic
Xanax. Of the sixteen prescriptions, I took only six. I see that as a major achievement.
It
was a joyous occasion when I weaned myself off my only remaining narcotic
painkiller, a patch I wore on my upper arm. The process was a balancing act
between how much pain I could stand and how much I hated not being
clear-headed. I would cut back on the painkiller, let my body adjust, and
decide if I needed to go back to a higher dose or maintain for a couple weeks.
Then I’d begin the cycle all over again.
It was important
to me. I’d heard too many stories about people who had been through a similar
trauma and never emerged from the narcotic haze. I was determined I wouldn’t be
one of them. My life was too important to me – my writing, my children, nature,
music, conversation, ideas, beauty – and I refused to spend the rest of my life
high on painkillers, existing but not fully present.
My mind-fog began
to clear about two weeks after my last dose of painkiller, but it took many
more months for my brain to heal. Trying to write during this time was an
exercise in frustration. Often, I couldn’t access words or remember how to
structure sentences.
There were many
days that I allowed my ultimate fear to dig its claws into me. Was I brain
damaged? Were the doctors right when they cautioned my family that I might
never be the same? How would I go on if I couldn’t write? What would I do for a
living?
I haven’t seen
many “help wanted” ads seeking brain-damaged, middle-aged, one-legged romance
writers.
The prescription
drug frenzy hadn’t been limited to me, I would soon learn. Though I really wanted
to visit my mother in the nursing home, I had to wait until I had recovered
enough that she wouldn’t freak out upon seeing me. Finally, I was well enough
to go.
About halfway into
the visit, my 83-year-old mother informed me that when I became ill, her
physician prescribed our old favorite, Xanax, to address the panic and anxiety
my illness caused her.
“Oh,
Mama, I’m so sorry you panicked like that,” I said.
She
lowered her voice to a whisper. “I didn’t, but don’t tell the doctor.
Turns out Xanax is a great sleep aid.”
I
was a little surprised. “How long were you on it, Mama?”
“Oh,
I’m still on it!”
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