Continuing on with my Adventures in Vicodin:
I "drug-dialed" Lady Starfish before she knew what was wrong with my butt. I left a message on her voicemail. It scared the crap out of her. This is how my message went:
"Maaaaaaaaaaaaaam's!!!" [Remember, that is the nickname we have for each other.]
"Whas-up.....I am on Vicodin and issa good time.....Anyway.... [Insert 2 minute pause here. Yeah, she said it was dead silence. Apparently I totally lost my train of thought.] .......ummmm.....jus call me back so I can tell you why I am on sedated drugs....[Insert massive sigh here.] Aaaaaaaaaaaah....my ass hurts. Call me back. Bye."
I only vaguely remember leaving this message. The lesson? Vidodin is fun.
Anecdote #2-- Last Saturday was yet another doctor's visit. Gotta stuff new gauze into the gaping hole on my ass, you know. At the doctor's office where I go, there are two doctors: Dr. Awesome and Dr. Butcher. Only one works per shift. Their names are directly related to the amount of physical pain they put me through. Based on my calculations, I was due to get Dr. Butcher. Remember, he is the one who made me cry I was in so much pain. It was like what I imagine torture to be. In anticipation of a repeat of my last visit with Dr. Butcher, I decided it would be a good idea to take a little extra Vicodin, just to ease off the pain a little better. So instead of taking one pill, I took one and a half. (Before you freak out and think I'm a drug addict, the docs said I can take up to two at a time.)
When Repo came to pick me up to take me to the doctor, I wuzzzz.....feelin'.....pretty good. I announced to him how much I had taken. He thought that it was a bad idea on my part. I slurringly begged to differ. I was rockin'!
For about an hour. By the time I was in the waiting room, it was Nausea City. They called my name to come to the back, and I looked up at them in my narcotically-induced stupor and informed them that they would have to wait because before I could go anywhere, I had to barf. I think my exact words were, "Ok, hold on. I gotta barf." Then I grabbed the trashcan and hurled into it. Twice. I got most of it into the trashcan. Some of it got on the floor. I thought this was pretty good, considering I would have been unable to spell my name at that point. Then I apologized to everyone. Twice.
Then I felt fine. And luckily (!) it didn't kill my buzz. Suh-weet. The Lesson? One Vicodin good. One and a half bad.
So after my weekly torture with Dr. Butcher, I ask (again, slurringly) about my lab results--what kind of bacterial infection are we looking at, Doc? So he goes to get my lab results. I lay there, ass out for the world to see, buzzing...well, buzzing my ass off.
Dr. Butcher comes back in a few minutes with a grim look on his face. I knew it was bad news. F--k, I thought in my drug-soaked brain, I have an incurable flesh-eating bacteria attacking my ass and the whole thing will fall off....wait....that might be a good thing. Size 6 here I come!
And then I realized he was talking and I hadn't heard anything he'd been saying. But I got the tail end of it: The nurse who had filled out the paperwork for my lab test did so incorrectly and they didn't test it for what they were supposed to test it for. Bottom line? They threw out my ass-swab and now we will never know what kind of bacteria I have. Dr. Butcher was looking at me like he expected me to grab a scalpel and stab him 347 times so he could bleed to death slowly and painfully. Or sue the crap out of him.
Dr. Butcher doesn't understand Vicodin very well.
"Oh. That'ssss okay.... Mistakes happen. I'm sorry I barfed." I replied.
The lesson? When you have bad news to tell patients, tell them when they are hopped up on pills.
Anecdote #4: After some more questions about my medical condition and a new prescription from Dr. Butcher, Repo comes to pick me up. He begs me not to be like last time. He also wants to make sure I'm ok since I barfed (aww.).
Apparently, the last time he picked me up, I would not. stop. talking. He said it was like being with a little kid. I asked questions constantly and kept telling these pointless stories to everyone within 5 feet of me as I stumbled and slurred. These stories included: the benefits of ginger to cure nausea and motion sickness, how a tree fell down and smushed a car in Repo's neighborhood, how the people who owned the tree will probably be sued, how much I love a particular chain of grocery stores here in Columbia, how hard it is for me to find the ginger ale in the drug store, how nauseated I am, how constipated I am, how much it annoys me that Repo drinks all my diet cokes, how much I love my dog Sammy because he doesn't care how I act when I'm on painkillers, how awesome Vicodin is, what I wanted to eat for dinner, what I wanted to do with Repo alone in my room....you get the idea. I also debated with Repo about the level of my voice. He says I was yelling the whole time, I slurringly beg to differ. Basically, I had no internal dialogue. It was just verbal spewage of the worst kind. And I started in the car, continued in the drug store and kept talking for another hour or so when I got home. Everyone around me was either annoyed, scared or laughing at me. It was a good time.
The lesson? Vicodin f--ks me up.
A little-known side effect of Vicodin (for me, at least) is bizarre dreams. I had one the other night. This is how it went: I'm in the grocery store, in the deli. I'm a customer, yet I'm standing behind the counter. The deli people are trying to get me to eat a sandwich, in a peer-pressure kind of way:
Deli Guy: Do you like seafood?
Me: Um, yeah, some of it.
Deli Guy: Just try the sandwich. You'll like it.
I take a bite of sandwich, exclaim that he is right. It's pretty yummy. I take a couple more bites. Then I take a good look at my sandwich. I am eating a squid sandwich. There are big slices of squid all in my sandwich, complete with eyeballs slices and tentacle slices. The squid were sliced lengthwise. Then there was something else in there. I peeled back the bread to reveal: a gigantic spider, marinated in herbs and olive oil. Don't ask me how I knew this. I just knew it was marinated, ok?
Of course, this is disgusting, even to Vicodin-dream VB, so I chuck it into the trashcan. Oh, but wait. What is already in the trashcan? Snakes. Big, black, slimy snakes. Tons of 'em. Why are they slimy, you ask? Because they have been marinating in tomato sauce. So they are all slithering around. Ew ew ew.
[Side note and VB trivia: I have dreams about snakes all the time. Remind me to tell you about the one I had when I was in kindergarten. Don't know what this means, but I'm too scared to look it up.]
I had another dream. I was at a Halloween party, hosted by a hot guy. Good, so far, right? Well, I was already checking him out when I realized that he was also making yummy treats as he was hosting the party! And all the treats were really yummy, unlike my last dream. There were little candies on all of these homemade goodies. So I began to hit on him. I don't remember what happened next, but all I know is that somehow this dream morphed into a third dream where a large group of my friends were camping with me and Sammy and we kept getting separated and lost. But the forest was so pretty, I didn't care. Plus, I had Sammy with me. Hard to be scared when you have your dog with you.
[Side note and VB Trivia: I hate camping. I'd rather eat the squid sandwich.]
The lesson? Vicodin = weird dreams
Well folks, I gotta go. Today I have to go to the doctor (again). That means I have to get going before my Vicodin kicks in. My arms are already getting tingly and it's hard for me to focus on typing this. Stay tuned for more Adventures with Vicodin. I'll be back with more stories, I am sure.
Also, I have to tell you about The Return of Jessica Simpson. But that takes a lot more clear-headedness than I have right now.