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It was never my intention to become a martyr, but after a back injury the self-pity party became mandatory. My odyssey into the irrational world of ‘why me’ began with my drunken fall from a deck railing at my cousin’s annual summer barbecue. My cousin lived in what some call a raised ranch and what others call a bi-level which meant I fell from the second story.
Unaware at first the seriousness of this injury I sat myself in a hot bath for several days, and popped a bit too many Tylenols. When that stopped helping I got myself to the emergency room. Where I was informed about my cracked back. I did it all right, but I was not about to blame me. It was my cousin’s fault for having such a high deck. Never mind his wife had asked me several times not to sit on the railing. It was my uncle’s fault for startling me with such a loud noise. He had popped a champagne bottle from inside the house and to save face I was telling everyone it frightened me in to my now famous backflip. After all something so stupid as being drunk and sitting on a railing could ever be directly my fault.
As the weeks passed, the pain grew worse. I found it difficult to sit. I also found it agonizing to walk and sleeping became a problem. Tylenol, well that was now a waste of my time. My current doctor refused to prescribe any addictive painkillers for me, so I found a pain management physician, who put me on a limited does of Fentanyl.
Fentanyl dissipated my pain and I could sleep at night and sit and watch TV during the day and I didn’t care about the world around me. When I ran out I kept demanding more Fentanyl from my pain management doctor and when he finally refused; I cursed at him and stormed out of his office.
Over the next few months, I found myself going to several different pain management doctors until I found my savior, who I called my Doctor Feelgood. He even allowed me to pay for Fentanyl outside of my insurance at a “select pharmacy” in another county. As long as I paid my Doc Feelgood my Fentanyl kept coming no questions asked. For about six months everything was great until the son of a bitch got himself arrested and lost his license to practice medicine.
I was one of the lucky ones because my family had realized what was going on with me and cared enough to hire a professional interventionist to hold an intervention for me to get off of Fentanyl. After my intervention I agreed to get help at the rehab facility the interventionist recommended and have been been clean now for one year.
Natalie P. Amherst, MA