Bring yourself back to the last time a shiver of fear shot up your spine and drew the color from your cheeks... Take a deep breath...
I'm plunged into that state of horror once more. Dr. S sat across from me, papers in hand. His light blue scrubs flanked by his white coat, with its ornately tied silk knots in place of buttons. But he never used them, letting it hang open by his sides.
His boyish good looks haven't faded, although he is steadily approaching 50. Above azure eyes, his gray hair was meticulously spiked up and glistened with styling gel. Every aspect of his appearance carefully considered, which reflected in his practice. The waiting room was decorated with dark woods and rich leathers. Completed by a set of lamps held up on stands by a series of pulleys and counter-weights. He had picked out each piece personally.
The sigh slipped past his lips.
"So we need to talk..."
"Okay..." I'm sure it came out as more of a question than a response. I thought maybe my insurance was not covering the knee injections I came in to receive.
A blonde nurse was behind him on the rolling-stool, a tablet resting on the exam table in front of her. She's always been sweet and friendly, but she seemed distant. Her eyes never moving from the screen.
"You've come up positive for a metabolite of cocaine for the past 2 months in a row." He flipped to the page, pointing to the red letters with the name of the metabolite and quantity. But I was no longer present. He might as well never have shown me them. He could've been offering me lines of coke at that moment, and I wouldn't have noticed.
The junky part of my brain began to click-on, preparing to explain away. deny deny deny.
"I don't understand..."
"It means that I can't keep you as a patient--for my safety and for yours."
"I understand. I can't believe it, but I understand. I know." My mouth was groping for the words to explain it away. To wake me up from this nightmare.
"It would've been right before thanksgiving and right before Christmas. Think back then, where you were, what you were doing, who you were with."
"I mean, we went to some parties. But, I can't believe that people would do that to us. I mean, I had some punch and shit, but I just don't understand."
"If you didn't do it voluntarily then that's the scariest story I've heard." He could've been sarcastic but he was genuine. I could tell he believed me, or at least didn't want to confront me with the implausibility of this scenario. "You need to be really careful about who you're hanging out with, they don't sound like they have your best interest at heart."
"No. They definitely don't. I'm just shocked and upset they would do this to me, to put me in danger. I'm shocked." Deny, repeat, deny, repeat. Say the words enough times and they'll become true.
-----
But images from that night in December kept flickering into view.
My friends huddled outside my apartment at midnight. R was inside along with a few other people. Our "punk parents" were inside, and I didn't want them to see what I was about to do.
My eyes followed every movement of the bag of coke in W's left hand, and his house key in the right. Scooping up some and snorting hard.
And then came the words that would seal my fate:
"Can I have a bump?"
"Of course! It's your party!" He passed it to me.
I dug into the bottom of the bag. White crystals of coke glistened on the gold grooves of the key.
It was a Friday, my next doctor appointment wasn't for 4 days. 2 bumps wouldn't show up. Abstaining would've been rude anyway. Right?
As I inhaled, I felt the air whistle into my right nostril, through the growing hole in my septum, and into my left nostril.
That hole grows larger with each year. The damage of a decade spent chasing down the next high.
The party continued on, and besides a friend we had to kick out, it was a great night.
But when had I done cocaine in November? It gnawed at me.
I rarely did coke; I can count on 1 hand the number of times I've done it in the past 12 months.
How could I have forgotten about it? When had we even hung out with people other than my family around Thanksgiving?
Our friends know not to offer us coke. Well, at least not to R. But even with me, and their knowledge of my history, they tip-toe around the issue. Only offering it when I would inquire. They respect and support us, knowing about the struggle we had getting rid of our coke habits.
-----
"You're young, I get it. A little won't kill you." Quickly following it with, "But it's still not good for you or your heart. It's not like the guy I once had, I was like 'really man? you are too old to still be doing this kind of stuff. It's so bad for your heart." I imagined the man, sitting in the same seat as me, convulsing with the same fear. "I've been told before by people, 'yeah, I did do it,' or 'you put it in there!'"
I chuckled, "No, I understand. I know you didn't do that. I just can't believe that this happened. Can you give me some names of doctors you'd recommend?"
"Sure. Shoot me an email with your insurance, and we can send you a list. And if it doesn't work out, you can come back in a few months. Think of this as a trial separation." A comforting smile spread across his face. The thought of coming back gave me a slight glimmer of hope. He is the best doctor I've seen for pain management so far; treating me like a person, not a patient.
"Great, thank you so much. I'm so sorry that this happened. You're the best doctor I've seen. I'm just so heartbroken." Tears welled up in my eyes, but didn't fall.
"If it doesn't work out, give me a call in a few months." He smiled once more as he stood up. "Take care of yourself, and be careful about the people you're hanging around with."
"Thanks, Dr. S." I followed him into the hallway. My eyes were locked on the teal carpeting while I walked past the nurses and their animated conversations. I wondered what they would say about me to one another. If they'd laugh at the implausibility of my story, or my shitty lies.
R and I walked into the parking garage. I recounted what had happened as the tears finally flooded my cheeks, along with the words, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I can't believe I did this." His embrace, the words of comfort, none of them could mend my own self-loathing.
Despair loomed over and then consumed me.
"I wish I could kill myself. I deserve to die. I'm such a moron. I'm so sorry."
Every sentence was punctuated with apologies. I could feel the weight of my actions crashing over me. I let myself succumb to the embarrassment and hatred I felt. A few hours of pleasure had cost me access to the medication that I need in order to function and keep pain from taking over my life.
The prospect of withdrawing, unless I found a new doctor in 2 weeks, created a sense of urgency underneath the despair. My energy had been eaten away by the appointment. I cringed at the idea of having to start all over with another doctor. And I worried that, like Dr. S, he wouldn't give me prescriptions at my first visit.
If that's the case, I'm staring down withdrawing from a 20mg of oxymorphone er and 10mg of oxycodone a day habit. (I ended up using up a bunch of my oxy early, so I've been rationing myself to 1 pill a day.)
And that would be starting on Tuesday.
At least if it was a Friday, I could spend my weekend curled up on the bathroom floor. Instead, I'll be behind the pharmacy counter: slinging pills to all the customers and junkies who need them to keep one foot in front of the other, day after day.
This is the life I chose...not my illness, but the new disease it has spawned. At the very least, it never gets boring.
Leave me some words of encouragement in the comments, I really need them right now!
Love you,
Lucy
