Tuesday, February 20, 2007


It's a tale of two medications, a tale fraught with struggles.

But there also exists triumph.

"I hesitate to give this to you because it's highly addictive" quoth the doctor, pre-surgery, "but I'll give you some Oxy to get filled after the operation."

With a pat on the leg he walked off as if to say, "Good luck with that, you're fucked either way with that shoddy spine..."

Could it be? Was I about to secure a legal tryst with the stuff I'd only heard dire tale of on A&E or hard hitting and not at all sensational news magazine reports? Did I dare go to this dance?

Was there any realistic possibility that it would be so stupendous I would gratefully become the slave of mother addiction? Scary thought. If such a thing happened, would I surely pull a Britney on my way to rock bottom and, not having any hair on my head, decide shorn balls would be an advisable course of action?

(Speaking of which, why is this head shave thing rehab worthy? Didn't Sinead and/or Demi already do this way back? It's with fondness I recall all of the defaced Popery and push-ups. I guess we're more sensitive toward psychologically unstable celebrity these days because we realize that money doesn't buy happiness--to get that, rehab and Kaballah are required)

Images of rock bottom possibilites faded as the angel no one else can see reminded me that these new and I-can't-believe-it's-not-illegal feelings were an awful lot like the realization that, as a young man, you stand at the precipice of your first bra removing victory.

I think I'm about to see some boobs (so to speak).

Rock bottom what? Pills please.

Now while I generally have never met a boob I didn't like, there was this one time....

Aaaand let's just say that my Oxy experience was something like that one time, and in considering boobs and pills I'm left wondering which of the two is more disappointing when confronted by a bad example of such, as both seem to cause alternating dry mouth/pasty drooling, inability to speak or think properly, and physical withdrawl afterwards.

After the first initial rounds, I bid Oxy a not-so-fond farewell and went directly back to my pal Vic. Vic wanted to help but was running low on supply, so I put in another call to the doc with the conversation basically playing out something along the lines of "Hey doc, yeah, those oxy's are pure crap. Yes, I'm serious-for all the good they did me I might as well have stuck'em up my ass. Really? People do that? Well, put me back on the Vic's, they worked much better. Thanks."

But here's the thing. Due to his abject inability to prescribe the proper dosage, I run out quickly and have to supplement with tiny (also improperly, that is to say, "under", dosed) Oxy's. Four days of pasty-mouth headachey goodness thanks to the douche that gets to cut people but can't do good dosage/weight math. Finally, as the discomfort becomes more manageable (thanks to the magic of healing) I finally get my refill.

It took Rachel to finally notice what I should have two bottles ago. Stupid fucking Oxy. Or was it boobs? Circumstances during this period are a bit hazy.

The directive on the bottle says to take one or two every four hours for pain, implying that it is my decision based on the level of discomfort. The bottle also says that it is a 7-day scrip. So, going off the directions, if, in the course of relieving my discomfort, I deem it necessary to have two every four hours, it means I will need 12 per day for a grand 7-day total of 84. However, the bottle contains only 50.

It appears pharmacist math skills are in sharp decline as well. That, or they simply think "power sleeping through that shit" is something that all people can and/or want to do.

And now for the triumph portion of the story.

I walked (some might say shuffled/limped) three blocks today. I can also sit upright in five minute spurts. All with only a couple of brief visits to Vic over the course of a day--just look at me go (back to sleep, as that is all my body seems to want to do at the moment).