Monday, December 14, 2009

Tragedy Poetic

I sit for a moment, taking in the staccato signals from my body to my brain. The pain weighs heavy on me tonight, one of those rare nights where it crosses the threshold from tolerable to torment. I know I'll not sleep unless I find a way to keep the neurons at bay.

I stand from my perch, coccooned in blankets at my desk. My body drags and I limp the mere feet to possible salvation. I clasp the keys in my hand and bend like the skeleton of a tree to reach the box under the chair. A small, black, unassuming case and its lock are all that stands between myself and possible freedom, at least for an hour or two.

I return to my hideaway, box in hand. Once seated I carefully meet key to lock, turning just enough to free the lid and gain access to sweet relief. I rifle through my stash - the medications I've saved for nights like this, knowing that callus, tired physicians are none too willing to prescribe some of the contents, their profession having hardened, jaded them. The labels cry out to me, familiar names, as I count the remaining pills in each bottle. A single Vicodin sits lonely in its spacious keep. A smaller bottle bares but one Valium. I spy a pair of Flexeril milling about in yet another container. These are just some of the residents in my box. The bottles all nestle together, all saviors, regardless. The rare with the readily provided, the mundane with the magnificent.

I weigh my options. The list narrows as I remove a contender due to difficulty to acquire. You'd have better chance getting a refill from the dealer on the street than a legitimate prescription. Another ticked off, not quite up to the task. I continue to weigh my options, my fields ever narrowing. At long last I decide, a contender I'd previously dismissed due to difficulty to procure.

It's nights like these that I loathe the physicians who have put down blanket rules for all patients, people they could help but won't, due to the illegal actions of the despicable souls who use the real illnesses of others as a ruse to get what they think they need.


  1. Beautifully written. Such a sad story though, and true, I believe, no matter where you're from, or what your illness is.


  2. Words written in pain haunt the reader and I have no doubt the author. I am so sorry.