Legally High

I was introduced to blogging by a friend I call Green (long story). Green’s love of blogging got me interested in writing my own blog on a more regular basis. Thanks to this blog, however, I am never going to be able to run for political office. I share way too much in these web logs, and today’s post is no different. You know, when I was dating, I’d go out with anybody once. It didn’t matter what race or religion he was. As long as he was, in fact, a he, I’d let anybody buy me dinner. The exception was drug dealers. I had no desire to be rolled up on during my calamari and blasted to smithereens by other drug dealers. I wasn’t about to do the Baby’s Mama Drama that usually comes with dating street pharmacists, and I am way too pretty to go to prison for merely riding in a vehicle that contained drugs having nothing to do with me. I successfully managed to avoid the drug scene – until now. I had a baby in November by C-Section (I’m also too pretty to be contorting my face through the process of pushing a human being out of my loins), I had an emergency appendectomy in December, then I had surgery again 13 days ago. Basically, this means that for the last four months I’ve been high as a kite. Then it occurred to me that I’ve actually had 10 surgeries in the last nine years. Good Lord, I’ve really been high for a decade. My body laughs at OTC drugs like Tylenol and Ibuprofen, so the pain of cramps or the flu usually isn’t helped with anything less than Vicodin. Vicodin doesn’t dull my pain, but it relaxes me enough that I can fall asleep and snooze through some of it. For my life outside of the hospital, after foot surgery, wrist surgery, GYN surgery and the like, I get my beloved Percocet. Taking 2 Percocet is like drinking a few glasses of wine, and settling into a hot tub with a good book. For about 90 minutes, nothing matters but those moments. My pain isn’t gone, but I simply could care less about it. I find myself smiling for no good reason. I answer yes to anything the hubby and kids ask. And I literally drift off to sleep drooling, and dreaming of shoe shopping sprees and chocolate fudge cake. I have developed a post-surgical tolerance to morphine (meaning it doesn’t work), but some wonderful, awful, person invented Dilaudid. I have honestly never tried street drugs, but the feeling you get from Dilaudid is why I assume people get hooked on crack or heroine. Literally, you could care less about everything in the world. It is the one drug that actually erases my pain, but it erases EVERYTHING ELSE  as well. I am willing to bet that on Dilaudid, I can’t spell my own name, or recite my children’s birthdays. Some doctors actually write prescriptions for the home use of Dilaudid. Thank heavens, none of my docs are that irresponsible. Growing up in the inner city, you see a lot of people addicted to a lot of things. They usually do a lot of awful things to get the drugs of their choice. Those things are usually illegal, so they are in and out of jail due to addiction. Here in the suburbs, people also get addicted to a lot of things. Some of those things just happen to be legal, and all we have to do for it is whine to a doctor. While I make light of my prescriptions, I have a health care team that communicates with each other. I happen to have enough common sense (and too many kids that need me to care for them) to ask for narcotics when I don’t need them.  But some people don’t have my common sense. And some doctors don’t care. If you know or suspect someone you love of being addicted to painkillers, talk to them. Try everything you can to get them to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting. They’ll need your support. As for me, I think I feel a back spasm or a shoulder ache coming on. Excuse me while I go take a Percocet and a Vicodin. I have to cover all my bases.