So much dreary stuff happens in a week’s hospitalization. Knowing that, I overcompensated with the optimistic notion it would be a blissed-out Xanadu drug trip. But at some point in the night of the day-after-the-operation I was under such a heavy-duty morphine dose I became terrified. From my bed, high above San Francsico’s sunset district, I stared at the gorgeous rows of lights that are the avenues. It did not make me happy.

We are meaningless. Man does not deserve to exist. Certainly not this one. I should end it asap. Let the greasy little cockroaches have this world if they’re so fucking hardy and proud of their nuclear invulnerability.

What is this shit I’m thinking? I tried to apply logic to the situation. I have people who love me. Some talent and enough energy to have what I used to call fun. I’m no depressive. Never have been. But this was a feeling, not a thinking. Rationality had no say. I flapped my lips and cheeks and whinnied, to snort off my state of mind like a cloud of flies. I kept it up for a half hour. Didn’t work.

Around midnight, I hit the nurse light. The excellent Rachel, who had replaced the horrific day shifter, Renee, came in fairly quickly.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m having suicidal thoughts. Seriously.”

“You want to talk to a doctor?”

“Yeah. I’m scared.”

A few minutes later the resident came in. A short athletic guy I hadn’t liked at first sight. But he did say, “I think it’s the morphine. You were in a lot of pain. We get these levels down and your outlook will be better.”

Which is what happened.

I’ve never understood depressed people. Why they couldn’t be reasoned with. Hey, look at your life, man, you’re getting laid a lot, you eat pretty damn well, and your kids actually seem to like you.

The condition lasted only three or four hours. Next day they put me on a non-narcotic painkiller, Toradol. And it worked. Problem is it can only be used for forty-eight straight hours because it’s hard on the kidneys. After that, they managed my pain with oxycontin. In fact that’s the drug they sent me home with — Rush Limbaugh’s favorite.

And if it wasn’t for the fact I wanted nothing in common with that jiggling mound of evil, I might have used some last night, when the pain spiked. Thankfully, Meloxicam, another non-narcotic, has been sufficient so far.

One Response to “Can a talk-show drug addict save you from drugs?”

  1. kate Says:

    Fred: Glad you dealt with the morphine in the correct way. You and I have talked before about how individual our little built-in chemistry sets are (we were discussing alcohol at the time)and we all get different reactions. I’ve never had morphine, but I had one experience with codeine and went into a full-blown screaming paranoiac episode. Similarly, Richard went completely nuts on one shot of vicodine and tried to jump out of the car going 65 mph on 101 as I drove him home from the ER after he fell and broke his shoulder. But, really, taking a few of the same painkiller as Rush will not turn you into a heaping mound of merde! Don’t be so silly. K

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