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Even a week before I had the knee surgery, my Rite Aid pharmacist handed me over a big bottle of 800 mg of Ibuprofen and then another massive bottle of 325 mg of hydrocodone. She warned me about the dangers of this “particular narcotic” and began her groggy spiel about how I should only take these as prescribed, but I stopped her mid-sentence. "I don't want those, thank you."
Look at me, I thought. "I am no longer a piece of shit."
Then, on Monday morning, right before I went under, a nurse there double-checking my information (right knee, meniscectomy) asked if I was instructed about the aftercare. "Did you pick up your pain medication already?" I told him the same thing–I got the Ibuprofen, and I was cool with that.
He looked concerned and suggested having the other pain meds picked up anyway might be a good idea. "I'd rather have you not need it, but I also would hate to see you waking up at midnight in severe pain."
Need is a dangerous verb for me. Needing creates more suffering than not needing. Perhaps that's dramatic, but in these situations, I have to remind myself that I cannot handle heavy drugs (or even medium-heavy drugs) despite what all these trained medical professionals say. I'm bad at drugs. Drugs don't work for me. (But I lovvvve drugs!)
I returned home from surgery late Monday morning, ate six Krispy Kreme donuts, and then swallowed my first giant Ibuprofen. I took another one before bed but had terrible insomnia all night and didn't sleep until early Tuesday morning. The pain was still very manageable.
But then Tuesday afternoon came, and I began to convince myself that maybe I did need the hard stuff after all. What if I was still floating on leftover anesthesia and hadn't yet experienced the full thud of blinding PAIN to come? But also me: What if I am needlessly suffering because I love the attention? Was I more committed to a performance than I was to sobriety? This is no time to be heroic!
But mostly–I was bored. I wanted to take a big Mike and Ike-sized opioid and spend 15 hours in an itchy slobber coma because that would be a fun and foolish way to expedite the healing process. What could possibly go wrong? Nothing.
Or—my entire life could crumble and fall away like an ice shelf. Good times.
I'd had this sort of procedure almost five years ago and was also encouraged to take the good drugs when I needed them. The short bursts of burning and stiffness in my knees weren't so bad, but I almost caved and ate the bag last time. The essay from that experience can be found below.
— AJD
The Big Empty Heart
May 7, 2019
*****
I rummaged through my wife's bag on Thursday morning because I was looking for the pain meds prescribed to me after my knee surgery.
I'd been plotting a relapse for close to a month, ever since I found out I needed my MCL/meniscus repaired. During the consultation, the knee doc told me about the procedure, the pain, the pain meds, and the physical therapy afterward. He said I'd be good as new, better than ever—once I got through the hard parts. I filled out the forms and checked the boxes I needed to and even wrote in clownish all-caps I AM A RECOVERING ADDICT so that they knew the deal. He prescribed me a handful of 325 mg of Norco "just in case."
When I fantasize about going out, I want to do it at a place called Frolic Room, right off Hollywood Boulevard. It's one of those bars with a heavy door that opens during late breakfast hours, welcoming to any and all problem drinkers. It's one of those You Need Us More Than We Need You establishments that are immune to recessions or trends. Sometimes I'll walk by it on a weekday morning on the way to an AA meeting and get a tug, even though I know better.
My mind seized on the relapse idea this past month because my routine was altered. The knee hurt, and I wasn't allowed to work out, so my days became less active and more isolated. My morning journal routine began to take longer; my meditations became shorter. My phone usage was up 65%. One day, I was on my phone for 13 hours and 3 minutes. I could have flown to Tokyo. Then, after I had the surgery, I dragged my stitched-up knee around. I felt useless but was actually okay with the pain. "Just let me know if you need this," my wife said. The little paper bag from the pharmacy was still stapled.
In the summer of 2015, I got super into pills. I'd carve out some time on the weekend to take some Xanax bars or half a tombstone of Vicodin or six Valiums or just lay on my bed. The TV would be on, but I'd watch nothing. I'd smoke two full packs of smokes and drink three or four cold Welch's grape sodas throughout the day. Then, I'd roll around on my unmade bed or chain-smoke cigarettes on my couch and pretend that I was actually practicing self-care.
One day. while I was really fucked up on pills, a live bird flew right into the glass of my bedroom window and knocked itself unconscious. I didn't know if it was real, but I tried to save its life because what if this bird was some sign, or worse, was actually me?
I took a picture of its non-moving body and posted it on Instagram. I provided live updates, begging anyone on the internet for information about how to save this busted bird. I put it in a shoebox and covered it in a sweat sock to keep warm. I splashed it with water and waited for it to wake up and fly away. It didn't.
That night, before I did more drugs, a friend helped me bury this bird in one of the garden boxes on the roof of my apartment. I guess some super high-velocity winds kicked up later that night and blew it out onto the patio. I went out for a smoke the next afternoon and saw the bird lying there, all dirty and wet, but I no longer had the energy to do something about it or even care about it anymore. Poor bird.
When I rummaged through my wife's handbag, she was downstairs with our two very, very young children making them breakfast. Her father was in town to help us out with them. My only job was to let my stitches heal and put ice on my leg. “Don’t worry about anything else,” they said.
I rummaged quickly because all the joyful noises of babies, a wound-up dog, and a new loving family all picking up the slack had let the guilt seep in. I convinced myself I needed those pills, but that was a lie: I wanted to take the sobriety furlough that was available to me. If this slip turned into something bigger—so what? All I'd have to do was show up the next day to a roomful of sympathetic lost faces, raise my hand, and say, "First day back!" like a chump. Everyone there would be proud of me and clap. It's so great that there is still a place to go where people will clap for you like you won some pathetic award, no matter how badly you derail your life again.
The pills weren't there. I snapped out of it. I picked up the phone and made some calls. I even went to my 12:30 commitment meeting on crutches. Safe again.
*****
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This is The Small Bow newsletter. It is mainly written and edited by A.J. Daulerio. And Edith Zimmerman always illustrates it. We send it out every Tuesday and Friday.
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ZOOM MEETING SCHEDULE
Monday: 5:30 p.m. PT/ 8:30 p.m ET
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*****
If you don't feel comfortable calling yourself an "alcoholic," that's fine. If you have issues with sex, food, drugs, DEBT, codependency, love, loneliness, depression, come on in. Newcomers are especially welcome.
FORMAT: CROSSTALK, TOPIC MEETING
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A POEM ON THE WAY OUT:
Not Horses
by Natalie Shapero
***********************
What I adore is not horses, with their modern
domestic life span of 25 years. What I adore
is a bug that lives only one day, especially if
it’s a terrible day, a day of train derailment or
chemical lake or cop admits to cover-up, a day
when no one thinks of anything else, least of all
that bug. I know how it feels, born as I’ve been
into these rotting times, as into sin. Everybody’s
busy, so distraught they forget to kill me,
and even that won’t keep me alive. I share
my home not with horses, but with a little dog
who sees poorly at dusk and menaces stumps,
makes her muscle known to every statue.
I wish she could have a single day of language,
so that I might reassure her don’t be afraid —
our whole world is dead and so can do you no harm.
ALL ILLUSTRATIONS BY EDITH ZIMMERMAN
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