As I closed out my 2018 pontifications, I promised a return to this space in early February. Deadlines are sacred, as I learned at a ridiculously young age from a crusty old editor who insisted that every story didn’t have to sing, but by God it better be on time. So here I am: on time, but not quite singing.
The purpose of the hiatus was to retreat from the madness of daily news and the brutality of winter, which is apparently now referred to as the polar vortex. My wife, Melissa, and I snugly nestled ourselves in a beautiful ocean-front condo, fully prepared to soak up a month of Floridian warmth and serenity. Then, right smack in the middle of paradise, I slipped on a wet kitchen floor and went into a graceless tailspin that ended with my unfortunate merger with a now badly dented wall. I broke three ribs. (For avid readers of Gray’s Anatomy, they were ribs 4, 5 and 6.)
There was a time when rib fractures were treated by tightly binding them with tape. That diminished the pain and allowed for healing. Turns out that approach also caused reduced lung function and frequently brought on pneumonia. The current protocol for broken ribs, based on the very best medical science available, is to sit quietly for approximately six weeks while enduring a pain level prohibited by the Geneva Convention.
Well, that is a slight exaggeration. The torment is mitigated through the wonders of opioid pain medication. You know, the stuff that is currently killing 130 Americans daily. All things considered, wrapping my chest with duct tape seems to be a safer course of treatment. But I was never that good at science. So I am following my doctor’s orders and “managing the pain” with Percocet, taken strictly as directed.
As a recovering drunk with almost 39 years of sobriety, I’ve always regarded pain medication with heavy trepidation. Yet, when confronted with serious, heavy-duty, mind-crushing pain, you are given a Hobson’s choice. You are either in a state of being where it’s impossible to focus on anything but the pain, or one where the pain subsides but cognitive functioning is reduced to the level of endlessly staring at one of those old television test patterns. I chose the test pattern, but can’t wait to turn it off.
That would not always have been the case with me. In the insecurity and anxiety of my youth, I would have devoured those pills in order to create the illusion of euphoria that comes with building an existential wall around everything you don’t want to feel or deal with. Fortunately for me, opioids were virtually unheard of in the 1970s. Back then, alcohol was the go-to drug for many of us searching for an emotional and cognitive anesthetic. It too kills through abuse, just not as quickly as the little pills cranked out by Purdue Pharma. I could so easily have been among the hundreds of thousands who died from this insidious addiction. The only force holding me back now is my obsession with sobriety manifested in a choice – no, an insistence – to absorb every aspect of life without a perpetual numbing of my perceptive filters. Well, except for mind-numbing physical pain.
Having completed four of my six weeks of broken rib recovery, the pain is slowly subsiding and I am lowering my Percocet dosage. I would not have been able to formulate even these meager and feeble sentences a few days ago. I’ve tried to follow the news, but it all seemed like a hazy, dream sequence. I was able to grasp some elements but couldn’t for the life of me process them, or make sense of them.
Believe me, this medication is, in no sense of the word, recreational. You wouldn’t believe the hallucinations it caused me. I watched a clip of the State of the Union speech the other day. There was Donald Trump, in my drug-addled state, talking about unity, coming together, curing AIDS and empowering women. I know. Crazy, right? That’s how strong this stuff is. Not only that, but I somehow got this inane notion that Virginia’s Democratic party was on the verge of collapse because of a lack of male leaders who had not worn blackface or been accused of sexual assault. That’s what happens to a brain on opioids.
This is all by way of saying that my commentary will be back in this slot as soon as the ribs heal, the drug regimen ends and all of the mental cobwebs disappear. Surely the world will look clearer and saner then. If not, at least I can write about it. Thanks for your patience.