H
June 16, 2006
There’s a day of my life of which I have no memory, but it is one I will never forget.
I am supposed to go to the doctor on a Friday afternoon, having had a fever of 103 for almost two weeks. My mother comes to check on me before leaving for work. I am non-responsive and incoherent as she attempted to shake my stiff body.
She and my father carry my ridged, febrile body down the stairs and pour me into the car. We rush to the nearest hospital only to wait at the ER for someone to pay attention. We wait an hour, maybe more. Weak and in pain, I sit in a wheelchair, leaning against my father as my mother tries to explain to the staff the severity of my condition. In my delirium, I mumble to my father, “I’m only here for the narcotics.”
Eventually I am lead to an examination room. Sitting in my johnny, it is immediately obvious to the physician from my arms the nature of my illness. Endocarditis caused by intravenous drug use. Endocarditis is an infection of the heart valves, in my case caused by staphylococcus.
The doctor encourages me to tell my parents about my drug use. He ushers my parents into the room, where I hold out my exposed arms, proclaiming, “I’m a user.” I don’t have a memory of the horror and fear on my parents’ faces, but I can only imagine the expressions they wear at that moment.
From there, I am poked and prodded as they attempt to find a usable vein. My arms look like a map of intersecting expressways. Red and blue swollen lines run up through my hands, with an egg sized abscess on the inside of my right arm as the source of infection. They do echocardiograms and CAT scans as the bacteria consume my valves, sending emboli throughout my blood stream. My muscles are stiff with sepsis and spots form on my hands and feet.
I come to in a small hospital room in the most excruciating pain I have ever experienced. The combination of withdrawal and sepsis, plus the fact that they haven’t given me any pain medication because they are not used to dealing with heroin addicts in this small suburban hospital, amount to me wailing and wincing with each breath.
But this is only the beginning. I must start a six-week course of an antibiotic that I am allergic to, so I must be desensitized in the ICU. I am sent by ambulance to a larger hospital, which can more easily accommodate my high risk of heart failure. I spend five weeks in the hospital with every possible complication: kidney failure, liver failure, pleural effusion, requiring two chest tubes, an aneurism in my hepatic artery, etc. I had seven CAT scans, an MRI, and countless echocardiograms. I saw a specialist in nearly every field. And the whole time, I just wanted another fix.
There’s a day of my life of which I have no memory, but it is one I will never forget.
I am supposed to go to the doctor on a Friday afternoon, having had a fever of 103 for almost two weeks. My mother comes to check on me before leaving for work. I am non-responsive and incoherent as she attempted to shake my stiff body.
She and my father carry my ridged, febrile body down the stairs and pour me into the car. We rush to the nearest hospital only to wait at the ER for someone to pay attention. We wait an hour, maybe more. Weak and in pain, I sit in a wheelchair, leaning against my father as my mother tries to explain to the staff the severity of my condition. In my delirium, I mumble to my father, “I’m only here for the narcotics.”
Eventually I am lead to an examination room. Sitting in my johnny, it is immediately obvious to the physician from my arms the nature of my illness. Endocarditis caused by intravenous drug use. Endocarditis is an infection of the heart valves, in my case caused by staphylococcus.
The doctor encourages me to tell my parents about my drug use. He ushers my parents into the room, where I hold out my exposed arms, proclaiming, “I’m a user.” I don’t have a memory of the horror and fear on my parents’ faces, but I can only imagine the expressions they wear at that moment.
From there, I am poked and prodded as they attempt to find a usable vein. My arms look like a map of intersecting expressways. Red and blue swollen lines run up through my hands, with an egg sized abscess on the inside of my right arm as the source of infection. They do echocardiograms and CAT scans as the bacteria consume my valves, sending emboli throughout my blood stream. My muscles are stiff with sepsis and spots form on my hands and feet.
I come to in a small hospital room in the most excruciating pain I have ever experienced. The combination of withdrawal and sepsis, plus the fact that they haven’t given me any pain medication because they are not used to dealing with heroin addicts in this small suburban hospital, amount to me wailing and wincing with each breath.
But this is only the beginning. I must start a six-week course of an antibiotic that I am allergic to, so I must be desensitized in the ICU. I am sent by ambulance to a larger hospital, which can more easily accommodate my high risk of heart failure. I spend five weeks in the hospital with every possible complication: kidney failure, liver failure, pleural effusion, requiring two chest tubes, an aneurism in my hepatic artery, etc. I had seven CAT scans, an MRI, and countless echocardiograms. I saw a specialist in nearly every field. And the whole time, I just wanted another fix.