Tales From The High Road

You learn something new every day.

I learned today that I should not drive on the interstate while under the influence of extra strength Vicodin. Like Clint Eastwood used to say, "A man's got to know his limitations."

Yesterday's visit to my friendly neighborhood oral surgeon left me with a painfully swollen jaw, so he provided me with a prescription for antibiotics and Vicodin. The Vicodin bottle instructed me to take one pill every three to four hours "as needed for pain."

Oh yeah, they were definitely needed. I was in a bad way. But thanks to modern chemistry, the throbbing faded away about 30 minutes after the first pill. Sitting around the house last night, I didn't realize just how loopy I really was. I felt confident that I could handle this medication without missing a day of work.

The fact that it took me 25 minutes this morning to make toast and coffee should have been a clue. But by the time I spent 30 minutes getting dressed, I had forgotten how long it took me to make breakfast.

Needless to say, I was late leaving for work. Then I realized I had another problem: It is so hard to drive when the road keeps weaving back and forth in front of you. I'm not the sharpest crayon in the box, but I finally realized it was time to turn around and go home. How was I going to explain to my boss that I was just too high to make it into work today?

The final score: Vicodin 1, Dave 0.

When I finally got home, it felt wonderful to crash out on the couch for 3 or 4 hours. When I woke up, my jaw was throbbing again, and it was time for another pill. Now that I was home, I could medicate myself in safety. The worst thing that could happen would be falling off the couch.

All of this drug-induced haziness reminded me of my last stay in the hospital.

It was back in 1994, and I was in Saint Francis for heart surgery. The doctor performed an angioplasty procedure (you know, the "balloon surgery") and afterward, when I came to, I found myself strapped to a wooden board in a cold recovery room.

The nurse told me that I had to continue to lay very still, on my back, for several more hours so that the wound, where the surgeon had entered my Femoral artery with the catheter, would have time to clot and seal up. You might think laying still would be an easy thing, but it drives you crazy when you can't move around or stretch, and after a while your back really begins to ache and stiffen up.

No one is in a good mood after surgery anyway, and with the anesthesia wearing off, the aching back, and the stress and general discomfort of being violated, it can make a person a little cranky. Okay, I was more than a little cranky. I was downright whiny.

The nurse took pity on me after a while and asked if I wanted anything for the pain.

Well, duh!

"I'll take whatever you've got," I groaned.

What she had was morphine. It burned a little when she gave me the shot, but within 60 seconds I was skipping down the Licorice Trail towards the Gumdrop Mountains. My pain vanished, my heart-rate slowed, my stiff muscles relaxed, and my aching back turned into warm jello.

Before I knew it, I was jamming with Jerry Garcia and Jimi Hendrix in an impromptu rendition of Purple Haze. Janis Joplin joined in on vocals. Life was beautiful. I was the happiest camper in the hospital for the rest of the afternoon.

Now I totally understand why morphine is a controlled substance. A person could get hooked on something like that in no time. It would be a great drug to have around if it were not for all those pesky side-effects like brain damage, liver failure, addiction and the inability to function in the real world.

A few months later I was back in the hospital for a second angioplasty procedure. (1994 was not a good year in The Life and Times of Dave.) I'm always looking for a silver lining, so I had consoled myself with the knowledge that, after all the discomfort of heart surgery, I could once again spend the afternoon visiting Candyland.

However, I made a terrible mistake in the recovery room. Again I was laying on that board, in pain and discomfort, and again the attending nurse asked me if I wanted anything for the pain. Instead of just moaning and acting pitiful, I said, "Yeah, I'm ready for my morphine now."

She arched her eyebrow and looked at me suspiciously. "I'll see what I can do," she replied coolly. I have since wondered, did she think that I just faked a heart attack every few months so I could come back to the recovery room after surgery for my fix?

At any rate, a few minutes later she gave me a shot of something, but it sure wasn't morphine. For all I know, she just poked me with a toothpick hoping I would experience the placebo effect. No trip to Candyland for this hop-head today! Jimi and Jerry would have to jam without me.

Whatever she gave me knocked the edge off of my pain, but it certainly was a disappointment compared to the morphine that I could have had if I had just shut up and moaned a little more. Once again my grandpa was proven right: He always told me that I talked too much.