A couple weeks ago, I had a minor procedure at my doctor's office. Nothing to write home about, almost a typical one ... except I was prescribed both
Vicodin and
Lorazepam for both
pre- and post-procedure.
I have a pretty high pain tolerance, so I just popped one of each. Then, after reading Web reviews of this particular procedure, I cracked another
Vicodin in half and swallowed it, just in case.
Thirty minutes later, as I was whimpering on the exam table, I regretted not finishing off both bottles. My husband drove me home, and
sympathetically gave me space as I curled into a ball on his side of the bed (my side was much too far away). By the time I got around to considering clawing my own eyes out to relieve some of the cramping, that dear man came around again.
In one hand, he held a glass of ice-cold water. In the other, two more
Vicodin and three more
Lorazepam. Wary, I asked him if this was going to do me in, Anna Nicole-style.
"It won't," he said, kindly hiding his laughter. "I promise."
Before I swallowed, I asked him to come in and check on me every 10 minutes. When he dutifully came back the first time, I'd already unwound from the tightly clenched ball of pain I had been.
The second visit, I followed him out to the living room and made ready to eat dinner. He put on "Two and a Half Men," and I started to eat, but something was wrong with the TV.
Every few seconds it would cut out. When it came back on, the story was moved forward.
In an unrelated development, my head suddenly got wobbly.
Next thing I knew, Matt was taking my plate from me and leading me into the bedroom.
"But it's early," I complained. "I'm not
tirzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz."
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I afford my rock 'n' roll lifestyle. Prescription medications put me to sleep almost immediately.
Don't believe me? Lucky for you, I had a follow-up exam yesterday. Remembering how
Beelzebub himself raked his claws through my insides last time, I popped a
Vicodin and two
Lorazepam in preparation.
Heading to the appointment 20 minutes later, I was feeling good. "I wonder if I can get my regular doctor to prescribe more
Lorazepam?" I thought. "It sure beats a glass of wine for relaxation."
In the doctor's office, there were minor
fumblings for my pen and my signature was a little sloppy, but not much. However, when I sat down to read a magazine, I couldn't figure out why I was getting carsick. When I was led to the exam room, I closed my eyes for just a second before the doctor came in and I roused myself from my mini-nap.
Hells, yeah. I'm hardcore.
I left for home (one block away) right after, and fell asleep with my work clothes on--right down to my high-heeled shoes--while Matt went outside to grab something for
Koa.
It was my night to straighten up, and I did so. Then I fell asleep again when Matt was making dinner. At bedtime, instead of reading for an hour or so and stuffing earplugs in my ear so I wouldn't be disturbed by Matt's TV watching, I snuggled up next to my hubby ... and woke up eight hours later.
That was my trip down the rabbit hole, folks. I think I'll stick with chocolate and pie as my main vices. I just can't handle recommended doses of prescription medication.
