About once every year, I'll succumb to the temptation of processed meat. I'll buy a can of it (not entirely guilt free), plop the quivering mass onto a plate, slice off three one-quarter-inch slabs, fry them gently in a pan, place them tenderly on white bread (what would be the point of using wheat!?), cover them with a thin sheet of mayonnaise, slowly savor each bite, and schedule my cardiac angiography.
Heroin on the other hand, I've never actually used. But one time I got to use one of its relatives. And man, was it dangerous. In my case, the heroin and the can of meat happened within hours of one another, so it was truly a memorable day.
It was about four years ago. That afternoon I had my annual canned meat dose, white bread and all. By evening I went to bed with a mild stomachache. I awoke around 1am, writhing in pain, sort of balled up in a knot. Being a doctor, I knew right away, as most doctors know when they have something seriously wrong with them, that I was just fine, no problem, not sick, nothing can touch me. That kind of thinking in the face of unquestionable severe personal illness is common among doctors, and I wasn't about to break with tradition. I tried to ignore the searing pain and go back to sleep. But my whimpering woke my wife and as a result of her level-headed insistence, I reluctantly got dressed and drove myself to the hospital. It was an interesting drive. At the time my daughter was 2 1/2 years old and my son five months old. If you're already in pain, you don't want your kids sitting next to you in an emergency room screaming, “Why did you wake us up in the middle of the night to drive us to a cold fluorescent room to watch you get worked over. Why are we here!!! You're a horrible father!” So my wife stayed home with the sleeping (silent) kids and I drove myself to the hospital, clutching my abdomen (that's a medical term) and using my chin to deftly control the steering wheel. Luckily, there was little traffic, and I kept control of the car by repeatedly saying to myself, as I always do when driving with my chin, “It's just a video game. You'll get there fine.”
When I was getting close to the hospital, I had the presence of mind to call the emergency room to say, “I'm coming in. Don't make we wait. I'm dying.” I arrived, was immediately rushed in and assessed to be in very serious condition and was politely given a cardboard number and a ream of forms to complete. I knew I was in pretty bad shape when I heard one of the nurses joke, “Gee, he's looking like one of Jerry's kids.” Ha ha.
I just wanted the pain to stop. But when you walk into a hospital complaining of pain, if the doctors make the pain go away too quickly then they can't figure out what's wrong with you. So they'll poke and prod you for a while, pressing really hard on your belly then suddenly letting go (that's called “rebound sign” because if you're in pain, you'll leap from the table and out-rebound any 7'2” basketball center that may be hanging around the ER looking for a pick-up game). A special refrigerated abdominal stethoscope measures and quantifies the volume of your screams. Such tools and techniques are all part of the science of medicine.
After a thorough hour of this, the exam is completed, my blood has been taken, x-rays done, the IV is in my vein, and yes, dear, I said the painkiller is on the way.
Heroin is the mother of all painkillers. (Actually, heroin is the daughter of the mother, which is morphine, but let's not get too deep into the family tree.) I got one of heroin's relatives, Demerol. Usually, Demerol gets injected into your muscles. But in my case, I suppose the ER staff wanted to quite me down quickly, and they mercifully shot the stuff straight into my vein. With one heartbeat the bolus flowed from my arm to my heart. And with the next beat, those Demerol molecules went screaming gleefully to the pain relief centers of my brain. The Demerol crashed into the receptors, and faster than I could say, “Hey, where's my body?” all pain ceased. Stopped. Nothing. Gone without a trace. I was floating. Having never used any kind of recreational drugs, I understood for the first time in my life, why people use the word “high.” I cruised floating around the room doing slow motion summersaults, the backstroke, cool Ninja moves, giggling, all the while watching myself sleeping peacefully on the gurney. I was thinking, “Wooooohooooo, so this is what drug abuse is all about! Now I get it! Oh, man, I'm going to become a junkie for a living.”
One shot, and I was an addict. As I continued my travels over my bed, the lab results and x-rays came back showing that nothing serious was wrong. (I didn't hear that). I was admitted to the hospital for observation, “just to be safe”. (I didn't hear that either.) The doctor was so kind as to tell me that if I had any more pain, “Just let the nurses know and they'll give you some more Demerol.” (Baby, I heard THAT!). “And, oh, lunch tomorrow is processed meat.” Could it be true? I had already had both in the same day-and now the opportunity for more? I felt alive!
When I returned to my body and awoke the next morning, the struggle for my soul began. The conversation went something like this.
“Hey, ask for some more Demerol. You're not in pain, but no one has to know that. After all, pain is relative. Compared to that high, just existing, breathing, thinking is painful. Ask for another shot of that stuff. Come on!”
“Dude, you can't do that. You'll never leave the hospital. You'll taste it again and then you won't be able to stop. They'll be on to you and throw you out into the street with the back of your gown untied. And then you'll be coming back every day faking pain just to get some more of that stuff.”
“So? At least get one more shot of it. Just one more shot! It's there for the asking. This is your last chance. If you don't, you may never get it again. You can always check yourself into the Betty Ford Clinic later.”
I guess after a few hours of this conversation, I started to scare myself. I was a junkie just waiting to happen. That's some dangerous stuff. All the while I'm holding a parallel conversation in my head as to whether or not to eat the processed meat that was coming for lunch. That's some dangerous stuff, too. I ended up getting “scared straight” and didn't ask for either, not that day, not ever again. After two days I was discharged from the hospital with a diagnosis of “non-specific gastritis,” which is sophisticated medical terminology for “tummy ache-we have no idea why.”
What does any of this have to do with anything? Who knows. But I do know that heroin and processed meat both make you feel great (at first). But used regularly, sooner or later either will kill you. And the processed meat addict is in much worse shape, what with no readily available detox centers here on-island, or in Honolulu, Guam or Manila. It's something the Community Guidance Center may want to look in to. Or maybe some private investors. Until then, be careful out there, and don't re-use forks.
(David Khorram, MD is a board certified ophthalmologist and director of Marianas Eye Institute. Comments and questions are welcome. Call 235-9090 or email him through www.MarianasEye.com. Copyright © 2006 David Khorram)
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