When I pull out the small white bottle from the kitchen cupboard that I’m cleaning out, I wonder how old they are and why I have them. My mind flickers back to the mouth surgery I had last year. Oh, yes, I took a few then.
Hmmm, I wonder. Why did I keep these I ponder. Aren’t these the kind of drugs people sell on the street; I mutter to myself.
Yup.
Hydrocodone.
Five-to-twenty-five-dollars street value for one pill.
My counters are filled with things from the cupboard – health supplements ranging from vitamin D to desiccated beef liver, alongside fish oil, reishi mushroom powder, nasya oil and other Ayurvedic remedies.
The opioids seem out of place. But as I go to throw them away, instead, for some reason, I place them back up on the highest shelf in the cupboard.
Now, something you must know about me for this story to make sense is that I hate taking pain meds. After my accident and subsequent surgery 24 years ago, I raced to get off the Vicodin as fast as possible.
I don’t like polluting my body with synthetic chemicals, much less anything that might be addictive. And I abhor the headaches and grogginess of the side effects. So, even to me, it seemed strange to choose to keep this little bottle of white pills.
But, as they say, no one ever knows what lies ahead.
Again, I want to give you a little context before I dive into the rest of this story. Twenty-four years ago, I was hit by a car as a pedestrian, broke my tib and fib, and have a titanium rod in the middle of the fibula from the surgery. I’ve spent the last two and a half decades healing myself through a plethora of modalities including osteopathic treatments, chiropractic, physical therapy, acupuncture, mainstream medicine, energy healing, journaling, meditation, yoga and ayurveda, exercise and diet.
Let’s just say, I have left no rock unturned, or so it seems. In fact, I spent all of 2022 returning to physical therapy to help heal the radiating pain swooshing down my left leg again. I sought out PT because I noticed I could no longer schedule walking dates with girlfriends. You know, the middle-aged ladies’ walking dates? Yeah, even that was too much. I never knew when the searing nerve pain would raise its ugly head and say, “Yeah, no way girlfriend. You’re not going for that walk.”
So, I adapted and began having tea with girlfriends. I did more gentle yoga. I began swimming. But let’s just say, if I were a dog, I’d be a border collie who wants to run and move, so these downgrades of activity level were seriously cramping my fun.
Fast forward to a month ago, early October 2023. I am back to battling intense pain in my body, unable to walk my 14-year-old dog without limping, unable to stand easily on my left leg without pain shooting down the leg. I am at once frustrated, sad, in pain and slightly demoralized by this 24-year journey.
One night, after standing and teaching my ESL class at the community college in town, I come home, and my left hip is on fire. That is when I reach for the small bottle of white pills on the highest shelf in my kitchen cabinet. I don’t care, I want the pain to go away. I want the drugs.
And it works. Within an hour, I feel better. I’m slightly floating in a different realm, relieved of raw nerves on fire in my hip. I sit in front of my TV and watch my nightly Netflix show and enjoy the relief.
For a while.
Suddenly I understand how you can get addicted to opioids. How a simple desire to be pain free can begin the downward spiral and addictive journey.
When I wake in the morning, my head pounds, my mouth is dry, and I realize why I don’t want to take those pills. All of which launches me on another journey to figure out what is going on.
Again.
But that’s the next story.