Drug Addicts

Personally, I don’t care what people do in the comfort of their own homes. As long as it doesn’t impact me, why should I care? The crack dealers that live across the street leave me alone and I leave them alone. The police know they are there, as I have written letters, phoned, and even met in person with officers at the police station.

How do you know they are doing drug deals, the police asked me.

Well let’s see, my wife and I have both been less than thirty feet from our neighbors when they openly sell drugs. We have both watched the dealer hand a little packet of drugs to the buyer while at the same time reaching out and taking cash from the user, I responded. Plus, I continued, I live in a cul-de-sac and I have more traffic than the I10 freeway through phoenix.

Oh, ok, was the intelligent reply. Kudos to the Peoria Arizona Police for doing absolutely nothing to curb drug use in my neighborhood.

What does this have to do with me and where I work. Well nothing really, except I have to care for druggies on a daily basis. Sometimes the addicts are 76 years-old and use alcohol as their drug of choice. Sometimes the addict is 28 and narcotics are the libation of excess. Either way, I end up trying to put the Jeanie back in the bottle after the drug addict has done something stupid, or in some cases done something astoundingly, inconceivably retarded.

I was working the 7 PM to 7 AM shift at the local hospital in rural Alaska. One benefit to working this small ER was that you got to know the local addicts pretty much on a first name basis. Don was no exception to this. The first time I cared for him he was admitted to the hospital for hepatitis. Not just any hepatitis mind you, hepatitis caused by the injection of narcotics.

Don liked his narcotics and was not particular how he came by them. Don came to the ER looking the color of 3-week-old freshly filled breast-fed baby diaper. The odor emanating from him wasn’t much better. He complained of right upper quadrant pain radiating through to his back. He was totally unconcerned that he could have passed for the mascot for French’s mustard.

Apparently, he acquired a stash of dilaudid in tablet form. Not wanting to waste good narcotics he ground them up and drew them into a syringe. He injected the concoction into a scarred vein and sat back waiting for the high, which came soon and lasted but a short time. He repeated this as addicts are wont too until he ran out of his stash.

Several days later is when he arrived in the ER with abdominal pain. The best we could deduce is that Don started out grinding the drug into a fine powder and injecting it. The higher he became the more careless he was in preparing the injection. At some point, he injected chunks of dilaudid that became lodged in his liver and caused hepatitis. Over time, the chunks dissolved and Don’s hepatitis resolved. He was sent home with instructions to stop using drugs. A suggestion about as helpful as telling illegal aliens to stop reproducing.

The next time I came into contact with Don, he presented to the ER stating he had a little burn on his arm with which he needed help. His entire right arm was blistered and serous fluid and bits of skin dribbled to the floor. His chest was also blistered and parts of his left arm as well. The interesting part of his burns was that he seemed completely unaware of the seriousness of his injuries. He was sitting quietly on the bed speaking in everyday tones. Much like someone would order a cheeseburger. Sure, I’ll have a diet coke with that 2^nd to 3^rd degree burn. Nancy gave me a knowing look as she cut dead skin away from the burns.

Aren’t you in pain, she asked?

No, not really, was the reply.

Any other individual would have been howling in pain and praying to die. Don was sitting quietly and watching Nancy cut dead skin off him as one might watch a seamstress cut a dress out of a bolt of fabric.

How did this happen, she asked?

We are redecorating the cabin and we had to move the wood stove. If we put the fire out the cabin would get too cold, he replied.

So you picked up the stove while it was still hot, Nancy asked?

Yea, how else was I supposed to move it, he responded.

All this conversation while he had about 18% of his body covered in 2^nd and 3^rd degree burns. He claimed he was not under the influence of narcotics, but I don’t see how anybody could be so calm unless they were sufficiently drugged prior to burning themselves.

He eventually went home and participated in other medical catastrophes at taxpayer’s expense.

Another drug addict who made her mark in the world was not so lucky. I’ll call her Skank, because that is what she was. Skank liked to party, as long as the party contained drugs. If she needed to whore for the drugs, that was just part of the price she was willing to pay to get them.

One day Skank underestimated the concentration of the drugs she had acquired and she overdosed. EMS, having the excellent response time they have here, managed to revive her prior to any serious brain damage. There was a permanent cost to this episode though, she survived but with a trach. I’m sure you’ve heard the saying when life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Well that’s exactly what Skank did.

Tracheotomies frequently come in two part versions. Skank’s trach was no exception and she soon learned she could remove the inner canula of her trach. Usually one does this just to clean the airway, but Skank came up with an ingenious way of cleaning her inner canula. She would remove it and use the inner canula as a crack pipe. The police would watch her light up and smoke crack and bring her to the ER and expect us to confiscate the inner canula. Unfortunately, her brand of trach was different from ours and we could not remove the inner canula and give it to the police without risking the safety of the crack whore.

Eventually Skank OD’d and removed herself from the gene pool, but that’s another story.

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