In July of 2009 my gastroenterologist met my wife and me in the crowded waiting area of the outpatient clinic. We followed him through a maze of identical hallways, past three different banks of elevators, to finally arrive at an empty, small conference room in the older building of the hospital complex.
We sat down and the doctor started to explain the test results. The look in his eyes was one of pity. He couldn’t hide it, try as he might. I had cancer. He explained calmly and gently that it had metastasized to the liver. The official diagnosis was stage IV colon cancer. A death-knell started ringing in my ears. The doctor left us alone and my wife and I exhaled slowly as we looked at one another in silence. Finally she spoke. “You never do anything in moderation.”
Three months later, after an absolutely necessary operation to remove a blockage in my colon, and utterly determined to endure no further invasive medical procedures, I ended up in the offices of a “pain specialist,” a man who paid no attention to what I told him. His only function seemed to be as a provider of OxyContin (a strong opiate), and he had no helpful advice to ease the side effects of a terrible and unbearable constipation. Month after month, the doctor ignored my complaints, only increasing the OxyContin to address the pain, and adding to my discomfort. I was becoming severely depressed and thoughts of suicide were steadily increasing.
To complicate matters, I had 27 years of sobriety to grapple with. My friends in recovery were unanimous in their support. Some of them were cancer-survivors, some had cancer themselves, and they all recommended that I must not have any qualms about taking the painkillers the doctor prescribed. Little did I know at the time just how many drugs I would have to learn to take again, all the goodies I had taken during my rip-roaring youth. Now, at the age of 64, the cookie jar was open, and I was given leave to delve into the cornucopia within.
After one particularly terrible night, I came to the end of the line. I told my wife that I couldn’t go on like this anymore, that I wanted to kill myself, and that I would. I had enough drugs stashed away to do the job painlessly, and I was ready to go.
That’s when she mentioned another way: the Home Hospice Program. I grasped at the straw, and it turned out to be the best decision we ever made.
The next day, we received our first visit from the Visiting Nurse Service of New York. They listened intently and compassionately to my story. Soon came an ever-changing diet of painkillers, digestives, a steroid, a stimulant and laxatives, all designed to assuage and address my pain, to make me feel good. They made me whole again, almost immediately, by quadrupling my dose of laxatives, and adding more efficient drugs to my diet of Oxycontin.
I wept from the relief; I felt “cured.” I was back in the groove, but, surprisingly, I wasn’t getting high – a very strange experience. I was getting my life back, and learning to take drugs again. My hospice nurse and doctor have constantly changed dosages and revised the time of day that I take the medications to ensure the comfort and quality of my daily life.
For instance, when I began to feel enormous fatigue, I expressed a desire to feel more energetic so I would be able to do more; they added a stimulant immediately, and cut back on my painkiller, now a twice-daily dose of methadone.
Weekly appointments from my visiting nurse are something I look forward to. She counts the pills, reorders, modifies the regimen and helps me to understand my terminal illness in an incredibly honest, natural manner. In what seems to be the ultimate irony for a recovered alcoholic and substance abuser, I have finally learned to take drugs correctly and not abusively, adhering to the proper dosage and timing, without having to beat back my disease to do so. I don’t get high or stoned. It’s an old story, one heard often in the rooms of a prominent 12-step program: “Nurse, I need more morphine. I don’t feel a thing!” And the nurse points to the morphine drip and says, “That’s your second bag-full, and it’s clearly working; you just said you don’t feel a thing.” A very frustrating realization for a fellow who might think he may be in for a bit of “legal” euphoria and all he gets is a respite from pain.
I have truly come to learn the meaning of living one day at a time. People tell me I look great, almost as if there’s nothing wrong with me. It’s a bit of a curse, that false impression, for each day that passes I weaken just a little more. But in learning to take again the drugs I once abused without awakening the insanity of active addiction, I am able to remain in love with life. And life is good.
Denis Shedd has been a printer for his whole career. He loves poetry and photography. He drank and drugged until 1983 when he got sober with the help of his wife, Marissa.
