Brigit's Flame Week Two - I Want a New Drug
o/` "I want a new drug
One that won't spill
One that don't cost too much
Or come in a pill
I want a new drug
One that won't go away
One that won't keep me up all night
One that won't make me sleep all day" o/`
----- "I Want a New Drug" performed by Huey Lewis and the News
They're the first things I see when I wake up: tall amber bottles with their contents vaguely visible, squat square bottles with discrete pharmacy labels, a sporty looking black and red inhaler, and a solemn looking sharps disposal container. I take twelve medications --- my happiness in a bottle --- every morning. Some form the components of a replacement metabolism. One of them prevents my brain from sending random electrical signals to itself. Most of the rest control pain of some sort.
I have, at this point, been taking most of them for at least five years and I've heard just about every excuse under the sun for going medication-free. Each of them has a natural 'cure' which they claim can replace most, if not all of my medications. I smile, thank them for their concern, and then politely ignore the advice. My physician is actually quite conscientious about keeping me on as few medications as possible. My army of happiness is, unfortunately, at the fewest number of bottles, inhalers, and injection with which we could get away.
I suffered for nearly a year before I accepted my physician's recommendation of a mild painkiller. Rush Limbaugh had just been busted for his misuse of prescription painkillers and I feared either similar treatment or becoming an addict myself. My prescription stated the medication could be taken four times a day as needed, but I took them only when the pain began honestly interfering with my quality of life. The first --- and only --- bottle lasted me a year and a half, and that was only a quarter gone by the time it was stolen out of my truck while we were on vacation. When I called my physician's office to explain and ask for a re-issue of the prescription, his receptionist gave me a horrible tongue lashing.
"Those are controlled substances and we can't just reissue them because you're careless. You're probably just trying to score another prescription," she accused me.
I never attempted to refill them again nor did I speak to my physician about another painkiller.
The pain increased and my mobility decreased. The joints on my fingers and wrists became obscenely swollen and I couldn't even get them closed over the hubs of my wheelchair in order to get around. At night, the throbbing of each joint, tendon, and muscle down to the cellular level kept me awake. I had to shove my hands against my mouth to keep the sobs from awakening my husband. Agony consumed me until there didn't seem to be anything left.
I don't know what woke him up the night I decided, one way or the other, the pain would end. I sat on the edge of our bed, revolver in hand, struggling to pull the trigger. Fox walked around to my side, knelt in front of me, and uttered only one quiet word. "Don't."
I laid the revolver on the night table and sobbed, "I can't stand it any more! Everyone expects me to be so strong but I just...can't...stand...the pain."
He took me into his arms and whispered, "It is what it is. No one who really loves you would ask that of you. It's simply not possible. Tomorrow I'll take you to the doctor's office and we'll sit in the damned waiting room until he sees us. I don't care what that bitch of a receptionist says!" he added viciously. "We'll get you what you need."
"The pain, the discomfort, the sickness are what they are. We can always cope with the way life moves and changes."
-- Ajahn Sumedho, Seeing the Way
The next morning, I sat in in my physician's office frankly telling him about my near suicide attempt. "I don't think you have to worry about becoming addicted," he reassured me as he filled out a new prescription for Vicodin to be taken three times a day. He gently manipulated the swollen joints and promptly wrote out a prescription for Celebrex too. "Are we treating you for your fibromyalgia?" he asked.
"No," I said slowly. "I have the Lexapro for the anxiety attacks but we had to stop the Cymbalta because it messed with my blood pressure."
"There's a new medication out," the doctor told me as he wrote out another prescription, "made specifically for treating fibromyalgia related pain called Lyrica."
Figuring that, if nothing else happened, I could be made comfortable Fox filled my prescriptions and we went home.
"Simply imagine happiness, your own happiness. Feel the smile stretching across your face, notice the lightness in your step, hear the sparkle in your voice, and all things, material and spiritual, will dance to the beat of your drums.
-- Notes from the Universe e-mail
I took my medications faithfully as directed. Enbrel injections were added in an effort to reverse the joint damage. The pain receded enough that I could move about the house and get some of the basic chores done. I took long showers again and didn't have to wait until Fox was home to bathe me himself. I dressed myself and no longer had to forgo clothes which had buttons or zippers. I could get shoes on my feet again. Last weekend, I drove my truck for the first time since the pain became so debilitating. Some days, I can use the crutches instead of the wheelchair. Other days, I don't need either.
So I smile when I see all those bottles. They aren't just happiness, they're the difference between a serene, productive life and a fate worse in some ways than death.
One that won't spill
One that don't cost too much
Or come in a pill
I want a new drug
One that won't go away
One that won't keep me up all night
One that won't make me sleep all day" o/`
----- "I Want a New Drug" performed by Huey Lewis and the News
They're the first things I see when I wake up: tall amber bottles with their contents vaguely visible, squat square bottles with discrete pharmacy labels, a sporty looking black and red inhaler, and a solemn looking sharps disposal container. I take twelve medications --- my happiness in a bottle --- every morning. Some form the components of a replacement metabolism. One of them prevents my brain from sending random electrical signals to itself. Most of the rest control pain of some sort.
I have, at this point, been taking most of them for at least five years and I've heard just about every excuse under the sun for going medication-free. Each of them has a natural 'cure' which they claim can replace most, if not all of my medications. I smile, thank them for their concern, and then politely ignore the advice. My physician is actually quite conscientious about keeping me on as few medications as possible. My army of happiness is, unfortunately, at the fewest number of bottles, inhalers, and injection with which we could get away.
I suffered for nearly a year before I accepted my physician's recommendation of a mild painkiller. Rush Limbaugh had just been busted for his misuse of prescription painkillers and I feared either similar treatment or becoming an addict myself. My prescription stated the medication could be taken four times a day as needed, but I took them only when the pain began honestly interfering with my quality of life. The first --- and only --- bottle lasted me a year and a half, and that was only a quarter gone by the time it was stolen out of my truck while we were on vacation. When I called my physician's office to explain and ask for a re-issue of the prescription, his receptionist gave me a horrible tongue lashing.
"Those are controlled substances and we can't just reissue them because you're careless. You're probably just trying to score another prescription," she accused me.
I never attempted to refill them again nor did I speak to my physician about another painkiller.
The pain increased and my mobility decreased. The joints on my fingers and wrists became obscenely swollen and I couldn't even get them closed over the hubs of my wheelchair in order to get around. At night, the throbbing of each joint, tendon, and muscle down to the cellular level kept me awake. I had to shove my hands against my mouth to keep the sobs from awakening my husband. Agony consumed me until there didn't seem to be anything left.
I don't know what woke him up the night I decided, one way or the other, the pain would end. I sat on the edge of our bed, revolver in hand, struggling to pull the trigger. Fox walked around to my side, knelt in front of me, and uttered only one quiet word. "Don't."
I laid the revolver on the night table and sobbed, "I can't stand it any more! Everyone expects me to be so strong but I just...can't...stand...the pain."
He took me into his arms and whispered, "It is what it is. No one who really loves you would ask that of you. It's simply not possible. Tomorrow I'll take you to the doctor's office and we'll sit in the damned waiting room until he sees us. I don't care what that bitch of a receptionist says!" he added viciously. "We'll get you what you need."
"The pain, the discomfort, the sickness are what they are. We can always cope with the way life moves and changes."
-- Ajahn Sumedho, Seeing the Way
The next morning, I sat in in my physician's office frankly telling him about my near suicide attempt. "I don't think you have to worry about becoming addicted," he reassured me as he filled out a new prescription for Vicodin to be taken three times a day. He gently manipulated the swollen joints and promptly wrote out a prescription for Celebrex too. "Are we treating you for your fibromyalgia?" he asked.
"No," I said slowly. "I have the Lexapro for the anxiety attacks but we had to stop the Cymbalta because it messed with my blood pressure."
"There's a new medication out," the doctor told me as he wrote out another prescription, "made specifically for treating fibromyalgia related pain called Lyrica."
Figuring that, if nothing else happened, I could be made comfortable Fox filled my prescriptions and we went home.
"Simply imagine happiness, your own happiness. Feel the smile stretching across your face, notice the lightness in your step, hear the sparkle in your voice, and all things, material and spiritual, will dance to the beat of your drums.
-- Notes from the Universe e-mail
I took my medications faithfully as directed. Enbrel injections were added in an effort to reverse the joint damage. The pain receded enough that I could move about the house and get some of the basic chores done. I took long showers again and didn't have to wait until Fox was home to bathe me himself. I dressed myself and no longer had to forgo clothes which had buttons or zippers. I could get shoes on my feet again. Last weekend, I drove my truck for the first time since the pain became so debilitating. Some days, I can use the crutches instead of the wheelchair. Other days, I don't need either.
So I smile when I see all those bottles. They aren't just happiness, they're the difference between a serene, productive life and a fate worse in some ways than death.