We are all capable or more than we realize. I fought for my own survival, and so can you. Everyone has a piece of the puzzle. Blogging makes mine ours. Joy is possible even in dire circumstances. You're welcome to travel down the the road with me a piece.

Saturday, December 4, 2010

Getting out of the Doctor's office without a bag of pills.

Getting out of the Doctor's office without a bag of pills isn't as easy as "just say no". They want you have a little "sumthin' suntin".
I was in the process of getting x-rays, MRI's and other "boy in a bubble" type tests; this means something is wrong. Something is wrong and they can't tell what it is by listening to your heart and shinning a light down your throat. So it's bad!
I was scared, and sober; so I felt scared. Emotions are hard. I was looking out the huge display windows of my gift shop. It was cold and gently raining.
In the park across the street, a junkie slept peacefully in his wheelchair as the wind piled wet leaves against his tires. I knew this could be me soon. This image holds me spellbound. Some are attracted to actors or athletes. I have a disease that glamorizes dehumanization. Others fantasize about trading places with a player who has it all; I fantasize about oblivion. An oblivion to all types of cold and rain. I was scared, and sober; so I felt scared. Emotions are hard.
I had told my Doctor upon meeting her that I was in recovery from alcohol and drug use. Her "Good for YOU!" was more good policy than bon mot. If only it were that simple!
When I declined her first offer of Vicoden, she spoke Street when she offered more.
"Oxy?" she purred, like a Drag Queen in the men's room.
"No" I said, I told you, I'm in recovery.
"Vicoden is perfectly safe for you" she said.
"Who told you that? " I asked.
They always ask us if we have questions, and then take umbrage when we do. Aww.
This health-care professional, and others like her were surprised over and over again when I didn't want drugs, a wheelchair, or an amputation. At one point she said "Don't you get it? You can go home, we're talkin' FULL DISABILITY here!" Like I had won the lottery.
Some people become their diagnosis, this, I would not do. I didn't expect down right adversity from the medical profession.
I requested she make a note on my chart, but the next visit I was offered narcotics again, and then again. I said I was afraid to be alone with her, and I wanted the exam room door open even if I was undressed (Gay). Our confrontation was out of control, she brought up Vicoden once more and I was miserable with temptation. I had calculated the street value of the prescriptions I had refused at $80,000 annually. My resolve halfhearted, my resistance, wavering.
I told my Doctor I wanted a nurse in the exam room with us, that I didn't want to be alone with her if she couldn't remember not to offer me drugs.
She said that was only if the patient was sexually intimidated by the Doctor. She said this in a "nanny, nanny boo-boo" voice. I exploded. Taunting me? No way bitch.
I said I was sexually intimidated by her and that I want a nurse present at all times.
She collapsed in a heap in a chair too small for her and said:
"please don't do this to me..."
'Then make a note on my file; remind yourself not to offer me narcotics.."
"but, everyone can see your file", meaning the nurses and other Doctors.
I pounded the flimsy desk till a pen rolled off, "Make a note!". I was too loud, "Make a note!", out of control, last straw, screaming "DO IT NOW!"
The battle was over but the war rages on. Even now that the crises is over and my life is back to abnormal, I get knocked into orbit around some Doctor unfamiliar with my file offering me something "perfectly"safe, like codeine.
Please don't feed the animals.

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