I had thought that because I was taking less than half of the recommended daily dose that I was doing well. I discovered that I was still taking a significant dose. And I learned that a small percentage of patients were experiencing a sensitivity to it that created more physical pain instead of diffusing it.
I was in that category. And thinking I was experiencing more pain-- which I was-- led me to take more oxycodone. I was still under my daily allowance. But it didn't matter. I had been on oxy for three years and it only takes 7-9 days for a patient's body to become dependent upon it.
I may not have been addicted but I was dependent. And without a doctor. And scared.
It took me a while to find a doctor who would see me. I found one. No one wanted to take on a patient who was already taking a narcotic that was now being closely monitored and regulated. I was not treated kindly by everyone. I often felt like I had to point out what should have been obvious from my file-- I was burned badly. I almost lost my legs. I needed the pain meds.
I didn't want to need them.
I spent October through December weaning off them, cutting every dose in half for a few weeks and then cutting it in half again until I was taking the smallest sliver. I was told by my doctor to take those slivers and to call the office if I had any issues.
Which of course I did. Always at 3 a.m. when no one was in the office. And there were a few nights that my heart was swollen in my throat and racing so fast I thought I would die.
The months that followed have been better and harder. My mind is clearer but physically there was some backsliding. So while I am ready for more mentally I can do less than I could. I was visiting with my mom recently and when I complained about my lack of energy, compared to last year she said something that stopped me cold.
That energy level was drug-induced.
So I'm aware now. I'm awake now. I have more pain than I hoped I would. But the stories are coming out. Editing takes too long still but I have learned to carve out the time I need to get deadlines met. I don't have the energy to write all night anymore. I have lost count have how many times I have fallen asleep mid-blink and wake with my hand on the mouse, hovering over a highlighted section. A couple of times I have discovered I deleted passages I meant to cut and paste.
I'm learning a new routine to make my artistic process possible for these new hands and this new body.
Speaking of new things, I have some things to look forward to, to keep encouraging forward momentum. I have a non-fiction story on my near-death moment coming out in five days in Against Death: 35 Essays on Living edited by Elee Kraljii Gardiner. And I have a supernatural urban fantasy story coming out in the anthology Of Fae and Fate in October.
Some of these hurdles have been hard enough to almost convince me that maybe one of the sacrifices of living was going to be my storytelling. I had to consider that maybe my post-trauma brain was different. And maybe it is. But the stories are there, more than just whispers of birdsong.
I'm listening. And I'm ready.
