Summary

The author, a recovering drug addict, reflects on their experience with opiate pain management post-surgery, the subsequent struggle with addiction, and the decision to seek support for tapering off the medication.

Abstract

The article titled "The Little Gods" recounts the author's personal journey with opiate use following a surgical procedure. Despite being in recovery for drug addiction, the author finds themselves once again in the grip of opiates after being prescribed Percocet and Tramadol for post-operative pain. The narrative delves into the author's initial euphoria with the painkillers, reminiscent of their past addiction, and the subsequent realization of the onset of withdrawal symptoms after attempting to stop the medication. The author, after some resistance, reaches out to a support network of sober, experienced women who guide them through a gradual reduction of the medication, emphasizing the importance of not going cold turkey during the healing process. The article concludes with the author's commitment to writing and working through the discomfort, despite feeling uninspired and doubting the quality of their work, as a means to reconnect with their creative process and overcome the dependency on opiates.

Opinions

The author acknowledges the allure of opiates, describing them as "little gods" that provide a sense of ease and comfort, yet recognizes the danger they pose to their recovery.
There is a clear internal conflict between the desire for the euphoric effects of opiates and the commitment to sobriety, with the author admitting to counting on medical professionals to administer narcotics while also expressing concern about their use.
The author expresses a sense of reassurance and relief in having a partner and a support system to help manage the prescribed pain medication, highlighting the importance of a structured approach to avoid relapse.
Withdrawal symptoms are depicted as sudden and severe, with the author experiencing them much faster than anticipated, emphasizing the potency and addictive nature of the prescribed opiates.
The author values the wisdom and experience of their support network, particularly the guidance from other women who have navigated similar challenges with prescribed narcotics.
Despite the struggle, the author maintains a determined attitude towards their recovery and creative work, recognizing the necessity of perseverance even in the absence of inspiration or immediate satisfaction.

The Little Gods

Coming home with opiates after surgery….what could go wrong?

A week ago Friday, I arrived at the hospital at 7 am having fasted since midnight, ready for my procedure. Sometime around 10 am — I was unconscious so I can’t attest to the exact time — a surgeon pulled my scarred and troublesome gallbladder out of an incision by my belly button. I came to in the recovery room as a sweet, friendly and very young nurse asked what my pain level was. Whatever my response, hers was immediate — more intravenous Dilaudid.

I had dutifully told everyone who came in contact with me at the hospital — ok, not the admissions person — that as a recovering drug addict it’s important that narcotics are only used when medically indicated.

In my darkest and most secret heart, however, I was counting on those well-trained medical professionals to make the right decision and give me the good stuff. They did. First, it was that flow of Dilaudid directly into my veins. That lasted an hour or so. I floated sweetly and understood at last why every junkie I knew back in Cleveland in the late 1980s was ready to pony up fifteen bucks for those little gods.

I was sent home with a prescription for ten Percocet and fifteen Tramadol. No refills.

This was deeply reassuring as I also was sent home with five bits of gauze over five incision sites on my abdomen. The largest being the one by my belly button. I understood the danger of these pills and asked my partner to police them for me, only giving me a Percocet when it was time and not before. I also kept a log to ensure I took the medications only as prescribed. Which I did.

Doing for me what I could not do for myself

I had my first eureka moment in life about half an hour after taking a Percocet when I was 19. I hadn’t even realized how clenched and anxious and shut down I was until those magic molecules went to work on my hungry brain, flooding it with soothing chemicals that woke me to an entirely new reality. I felt completely at ease and in tune with the universe. I understood something that I still can’t verbalize. For the first time in my life, I was ok.

About four hours later, I could feel the magic ebbing but not to worry. There were more pills. I took a second one and waited. I came very close to that first place of total bliss but not quite. For the next eighteen years, nothing else was important enough in my life to get in the way of my pursuit of that elusive paradise. I never found it.

That’s not to say that those little gods didn’t provide solace and lovely rises of euphoria over the years. They did for me what I seemed incapable of doing for myself.

I could talk easily to anyone. I slept well. I could handle situations that used to baffle me. I discovered a new freedom and a new happiness. I did not regret, well, anything. That horrible sense of futility and self-pity vanished. I felt capable and intelligent. I experienced serenity and I knew peace. I had found my Higher Power and, baby, I was not letting go.

What I didn’t know then was that I’d latched onto one of the more fickle of Higher Powers. I wasn’t going to let go of it, but it slowly eased away from me.

As my gods did less for me, the obvious solution was to up the dosage. This was a solution with a shelf life and I hit my expiration date pretty quickly. The story gets tiresomely predictable here. I vomited in public, I wept constantly, I pissed the bed, I stole from everyone, I crashed. I got help. I accepted help.

I got better.

And so I knew that those little gods that came home with me from the hospital were not to be toyed with. I knew it in my head. But I’ve been clean and sober for 27 years, Bubby, I got this.

18 hours and it hit me

It’s been nine days and yesterday, with only three Tramadol left — and the Percocet finished two days ago — I consciously skipped the afternoon dose and decided I’d see how the pain was before taking another.

Sometime in the evening, after AleXander went out to get some badly needed walking in, I realized I felt horrible. Cold sweats, slight nausea, overall sense of doom and impending catastrophe. Right about the time I was thinking that maybe I should go ahead and take that pill I wasn’t going to take, it hit me. It had been about 18 hours since the last pill and I was having withdrawal symptoms. My body was sending urgent signals that it wasn’t getting what it now needed. That fast. A week was all it took.

And this felt way worse than I remembered.

Back when I first got home from the hospital and surveyed my stash of opiates, I knew that later I was going to have to pay for this chemical ease and comfort, but hey, I’ve ridden this donkey before. I’d be ok. I’d deal with it when the time came.

The time has come

Can I tell you how hard it was to reach out for help? I did not want to tell anyone about this and have some well-meaning friend advise me to flush those precious last three pills. Did not. Would not. Had to. I chose carefully, however, and am incredibly fortunate in having solidly sober, wise, loving women in my life who’ve been through multiple surgeries, chemo, double mastectomies, bowel obstructions, you name it. Women who have had enormous experience with medically prescribed narcotics.

Women who know there’s nothing to be gained by going cold turkey while I’m still in the early stages of healing.

With their loving guidance, and AleXander’s steady hand and Exacto knife, I now had six half-Tramadols. I’m stretching them out and remembering that the cold sweats, the difficulty breathing, the nausea, the overall sense of everything being wrong is temporary. I won’t always feel like this.

And I’m pushing myself to write

I don’t feel like writing. My head, hand, guts connection seems sundered. I don’t have any good ideas. I don’t have any ideas. Even the one I’m running with here, which seems pretty natural given circumstances, feels stale and stupid. But I’m pushing myself anyway. For every one of the past nine days, I’ve opened numerous drafts and pecked away a paragraph here or there and then given up. Because why look for elusive rays of satisfaction in working hard when there’s a small white pill god ready to confer immediate ease and satisfaction?

Fortunately — or unfortunately — Medium’s most recent shift of algorithms has left me high and dry, so there’s been no particular sense of urgency to get this engine started again. I have a couple of compilations and a novella I’m editing and organizing for publication, work that requires time and attention but no head, hand, gut connection. That’s been enough.

Until now. Now I need to feel around inside and find those sundered threads, join them and get back to work. Even though I don’t feel like it. Even though I have absolutely zero inspiration. Even though I’m reasonably sure what I’m writing is a load of crap.

Isn’t it just my good luck that I’ve never relied on inspiration to get to work?

Thanks for reading if you held on this long! I’ll do better next time.