Back to the Present: Pain, More Pain and That's the Good News
©2008 by LeeZard
I may be on the cusp of becoming “an elderly gentleman,” but I’ve never had to deal with chronic pain – until this year. I want to share this experience with you because, by reading this Blog, you are perversely interested in my journey through life. But, I also want to relate my first real experience with managing pain - or not managing pain - via the use of prescribed narcotics. OH MY GAWD!!
It started out last February as a dull ache down the back of my legs. I mostly felt it when I awoke in the morning and then a little bit after my daily three-mile power walk with Brando the Wonder Dog (BTWD). “Muscle soreness,” thought I, and tried to ignore it.
Three weeks later, the soreness was still there. In fact, it was getting worse, even with a couple of Aleve every 12-hours. Time to call The Doc. I’ve written about Doc before, about how he saved my sorry ass when I was at the deepest level of desperation right before I got sober. One of the reasons I called Doc then was because I knew, as a dedicated (Grateful) Deadhead, he would understand my drug and alcohol problems.
Over the last ten years, our relationship has grown beyond that of doctor/patient. On more than one occasion, Doc has called me to ask recovery questions vis a vis a patient. He has given my phone number, with my permission, to some of his patients when he suspects they are ready to turn their addicted lives around. If Doc is a deadhead, I am most-certainly a Doc-head. But, as usual, I digress. The point is, Doc knows I only call when there’s good reason. Doc is always there for me.
We talked on the phone a bit and he suggested I come in to the office for a quick examination. “I’m thinking it’s a pinched nerve,” he said after pinching, pulling, tugging and thinking. “If the Aleve isn’t working anymore,” he said, “I don’t really want to put you on a painkiller, given your history. Let’s try a steroid (Prednisone) to cool down the inflammation”
Twenty-four hours later I was a huge Prednisone fan; the pain was gone, gone, gone. After a month, I hadn’t realized how much the constant pain had affected everything – my mood, my attitude, my posture, my sudden lack of energy and motivation to exercise. The problem is, Prednisone is only a short-term fix. At the end of my week’s dosage, the pain was back – and worse than before. “Okay,” said the ever-optimistic Doc, let’s give physical therapy a whirl.”
I’ve done PT before. I hate it. No, how do I really feel? I HATE it. Doesn’t everyone? The only saving grace this time was my therapist; she was drop-dead gorgeous, abeit a tough taskmistress. Neither of us was interested in flirting but, hey, I’m still a guy and I still appreciate a beautiful woman and, if I could please her through hard work, then please her I would. The trouble is, after about four visits, nothing changed, except the pain was worse.
Now, I was having trouble walking when I got out of bed in the morning. It would improve somewhat as I moved around but things were definitely going in the wrong direction. So I asked both Doc and Beautiful Therapist about seeing a chiropractor. I wasn’t sure how they’d react but, since nothing else seemed to be working, they agreed it was worth a try.
Suffice it to say that three visits to a well-recommended chiropractor brought nothing, except the pain was worse. The chiropractor was a turning point, though because she suggested I go for an MRI. Doc immediately lined me up for the exam and one of the best neurosurgeons in town.
“Well,” you’ve got quite a bit going on here and none of it is good,” said my new doc. First, you’ve got some arthritis in the back and there’s not much we can do for that beyond trying to manage the pain. The other problem is Spinal Stenosis which is forcing two discs up against the nerves that are shooting pain down your legs.”
“Spinal Whaaa?”
I liked this new doc; here was a surgeon who actually didn’t jump right to surgery as a first option. In fact, he recommended it only as a last resort.
It wasn’t long before I signed in to the last resort but not until I tried almost everything else. Cortisone shots into my back only lasted three weeks. A process sending electrical pulses to fry the nerves sending (arthritic) pain to my brain was only partially successful; it doesn’t work on the Stenosis.
The surgery itself went pretty well. In fact, I went home the same day. Post-op is a whole other kettle of opiates. More on that in a moment.
We won’t know until sometime in January if the surgery was successful; I am still experiencing pain down my legs every morning, sometimes so severe I can hardly walk. That could be the arthritis. Have to wait on that one.
The two-and-half-weeks since surgery, though, have been quite a rough ride. Welcome to Pain Meds 101.
I was in so much pain in the few weeks running up to the surgery that the doc had me on a pretty heavy dose of Vicodin – sometimes eight-to-ten pills a day. Needless to say, as a recovered alcoholic/addict, I am extremely alert: no, make that paranoid, about anything that could put me on a slippery slope back to hell. But, I’ve also learned in recovery, that you have to do what is necessary to take care of yourself.
I thank God every day that I no longer crave alcohol or drugs and that miracle continued throughout my Vicodin use. I never exceeded the prescription’s recommended dosage and I never craved them but I’d eaten so much pre-surgery Vicodin that the post-op Percocet (Vicodin times 4) didn’t work. The first three days after surgery were agony I cannot begin to describe. Suffice it to say I was immobilized in every way. But that was only the beginning.
After the mega-pain subsided I tried to wean myself off the meds. I’d been taking one or two every four-to-six hours and two at bedtime. Even at that level, the pain would wake me by two or three in the morning and I’d pop one or two more (still under the doc’s instructions). Finally, about five days after surgery, I slept the whole night through on just the two Percocet. That was enough for moi so I switched back to Aleve.
We’ve all read about people becoming addicted to painkillers. I’ve known guys with more than 20-years sobriety who got hooked and were so ashamed, they were afraid to admit it in their AA meetings. I swore that was not going to be me.
I may not have become emotionally hooked on the opiates but my body had a completely different response. By mid-morning on the day I stopped the Percocet I felt like a 16-pound bowling ball was rolling around my stomach. That’s the only way to describe it. I began sweating and dark thoughts were followed by darker thoughts. I curled up in the fetal position and tried to tough it out. Welcome to opiate withdrawal, Leezard!
By nightfall things were getting worse so I did what I’ve been taught in recovery; I grabbed for the phone and called one of my AA buddies. In this case, the AA buddy also happened to be an MD and former pill addict.
I ran down my symptoms. “Yup,” he said, “you’re in withdrawal.” Yeah, that’s like telling someone throwing up on the deck of a rolling ship that they are seasick.
“It’s going to get worse over the next 72-hours or so before it gets better,” he added. “You’re just going to have to hang on to your ass.” NOT what I wanted to hear. “Has the diarrhea started?” he asked before hanging up.
“Thank God no,” I replied as I felt the bowling ball begin to churn around some nausea. Not 30-seconds after hanging up, I was running for the head – the first of what would become an hourly ritual through the next day. “Drink lots of liquids,” I kept reminding myself.
I don’t know why I waited but it wasn’t until the next morning that I called Doc and told him what was going on.
“You did it wrong,” he said immediately. “You need to wean yourself from that shit over a longer period of time. I’m going to put you back on a lesser dose of the Vicodin – just two-a-day today and tomorrow and one the day after that. It will ease the withdrawal symptoms but you’re still in for a rough ride over the next 36-48 hours.”
It worked, though. Before I took the second Vicodin that day, the symptoms eased enough for me to uncurl from the fetal position. By sundown I was up and walking around – the bowling ball down to about nine pounds. I was still attached to the crapper for another day but it was spreading out to once every two or three hours.
Even after the physical symptoms eased to the point where I could sit back down at the computer, my mind was still addled. I never really got a high from the meds but I knew in my head they were there. The affect was so outstripped by first the pain and then the physical withdrawal that I never noticed I was in a fog but it took another three days of simply staring at the computer screen and playing mindless games before I could do anything productive.
What have I learned from all of this? THERE’S GOTTA BE ANOTHER WAY!
I may be on the cusp of becoming “an elderly gentleman,” but I’ve never had to deal with chronic pain – until this year. I want to share this experience with you because, by reading this Blog, you are perversely interested in my journey through life. But, I also want to relate my first real experience with managing pain - or not managing pain - via the use of prescribed narcotics. OH MY GAWD!!
It started out last February as a dull ache down the back of my legs. I mostly felt it when I awoke in the morning and then a little bit after my daily three-mile power walk with Brando the Wonder Dog (BTWD). “Muscle soreness,” thought I, and tried to ignore it.
Three weeks later, the soreness was still there. In fact, it was getting worse, even with a couple of Aleve every 12-hours. Time to call The Doc. I’ve written about Doc before, about how he saved my sorry ass when I was at the deepest level of desperation right before I got sober. One of the reasons I called Doc then was because I knew, as a dedicated (Grateful) Deadhead, he would understand my drug and alcohol problems.
Over the last ten years, our relationship has grown beyond that of doctor/patient. On more than one occasion, Doc has called me to ask recovery questions vis a vis a patient. He has given my phone number, with my permission, to some of his patients when he suspects they are ready to turn their addicted lives around. If Doc is a deadhead, I am most-certainly a Doc-head. But, as usual, I digress. The point is, Doc knows I only call when there’s good reason. Doc is always there for me.
We talked on the phone a bit and he suggested I come in to the office for a quick examination. “I’m thinking it’s a pinched nerve,” he said after pinching, pulling, tugging and thinking. “If the Aleve isn’t working anymore,” he said, “I don’t really want to put you on a painkiller, given your history. Let’s try a steroid (Prednisone) to cool down the inflammation”
Twenty-four hours later I was a huge Prednisone fan; the pain was gone, gone, gone. After a month, I hadn’t realized how much the constant pain had affected everything – my mood, my attitude, my posture, my sudden lack of energy and motivation to exercise. The problem is, Prednisone is only a short-term fix. At the end of my week’s dosage, the pain was back – and worse than before. “Okay,” said the ever-optimistic Doc, let’s give physical therapy a whirl.”
I’ve done PT before. I hate it. No, how do I really feel? I HATE it. Doesn’t everyone? The only saving grace this time was my therapist; she was drop-dead gorgeous, abeit a tough taskmistress. Neither of us was interested in flirting but, hey, I’m still a guy and I still appreciate a beautiful woman and, if I could please her through hard work, then please her I would. The trouble is, after about four visits, nothing changed, except the pain was worse.
Now, I was having trouble walking when I got out of bed in the morning. It would improve somewhat as I moved around but things were definitely going in the wrong direction. So I asked both Doc and Beautiful Therapist about seeing a chiropractor. I wasn’t sure how they’d react but, since nothing else seemed to be working, they agreed it was worth a try.
Suffice it to say that three visits to a well-recommended chiropractor brought nothing, except the pain was worse. The chiropractor was a turning point, though because she suggested I go for an MRI. Doc immediately lined me up for the exam and one of the best neurosurgeons in town.
“Well,” you’ve got quite a bit going on here and none of it is good,” said my new doc. First, you’ve got some arthritis in the back and there’s not much we can do for that beyond trying to manage the pain. The other problem is Spinal Stenosis which is forcing two discs up against the nerves that are shooting pain down your legs.”
“Spinal Whaaa?”
Spinal stenosis is a narrowed lumbar or cervical spinal canal and typically consists of back and buttock or leg pain induced by walking or standing. The pain is relieved by sitting. Symptoms in the legs are usually bilateral.
I liked this new doc; here was a surgeon who actually didn’t jump right to surgery as a first option. In fact, he recommended it only as a last resort.
It wasn’t long before I signed in to the last resort but not until I tried almost everything else. Cortisone shots into my back only lasted three weeks. A process sending electrical pulses to fry the nerves sending (arthritic) pain to my brain was only partially successful; it doesn’t work on the Stenosis.
So, two-and-a-half weeks ago, I submitted to microsurgery to decompress my spinal canal. My surgeon calls it “minor” surgery – compared to the full-meal-deal spinal fusion but all things being relative, no back surgery is really minor.
The surgery itself went pretty well. In fact, I went home the same day. Post-op is a whole other kettle of opiates. More on that in a moment.
We won’t know until sometime in January if the surgery was successful; I am still experiencing pain down my legs every morning, sometimes so severe I can hardly walk. That could be the arthritis. Have to wait on that one.
The two-and-half-weeks since surgery, though, have been quite a rough ride. Welcome to Pain Meds 101.
I was in so much pain in the few weeks running up to the surgery that the doc had me on a pretty heavy dose of Vicodin – sometimes eight-to-ten pills a day. Needless to say, as a recovered alcoholic/addict, I am extremely alert: no, make that paranoid, about anything that could put me on a slippery slope back to hell. But, I’ve also learned in recovery, that you have to do what is necessary to take care of yourself.
I thank God every day that I no longer crave alcohol or drugs and that miracle continued throughout my Vicodin use. I never exceeded the prescription’s recommended dosage and I never craved them but I’d eaten so much pre-surgery Vicodin that the post-op Percocet (Vicodin times 4) didn’t work. The first three days after surgery were agony I cannot begin to describe. Suffice it to say I was immobilized in every way. But that was only the beginning.
After the mega-pain subsided I tried to wean myself off the meds. I’d been taking one or two every four-to-six hours and two at bedtime. Even at that level, the pain would wake me by two or three in the morning and I’d pop one or two more (still under the doc’s instructions). Finally, about five days after surgery, I slept the whole night through on just the two Percocet. That was enough for moi so I switched back to Aleve.
We’ve all read about people becoming addicted to painkillers. I’ve known guys with more than 20-years sobriety who got hooked and were so ashamed, they were afraid to admit it in their AA meetings. I swore that was not going to be me.
I may not have become emotionally hooked on the opiates but my body had a completely different response. By mid-morning on the day I stopped the Percocet I felt like a 16-pound bowling ball was rolling around my stomach. That’s the only way to describe it. I began sweating and dark thoughts were followed by darker thoughts. I curled up in the fetal position and tried to tough it out. Welcome to opiate withdrawal, Leezard!
By nightfall things were getting worse so I did what I’ve been taught in recovery; I grabbed for the phone and called one of my AA buddies. In this case, the AA buddy also happened to be an MD and former pill addict.I ran down my symptoms. “Yup,” he said, “you’re in withdrawal.” Yeah, that’s like telling someone throwing up on the deck of a rolling ship that they are seasick.
“It’s going to get worse over the next 72-hours or so before it gets better,” he added. “You’re just going to have to hang on to your ass.” NOT what I wanted to hear. “Has the diarrhea started?” he asked before hanging up.
“Thank God no,” I replied as I felt the bowling ball begin to churn around some nausea. Not 30-seconds after hanging up, I was running for the head – the first of what would become an hourly ritual through the next day. “Drink lots of liquids,” I kept reminding myself.
I don’t know why I waited but it wasn’t until the next morning that I called Doc and told him what was going on.
“You did it wrong,” he said immediately. “You need to wean yourself from that shit over a longer period of time. I’m going to put you back on a lesser dose of the Vicodin – just two-a-day today and tomorrow and one the day after that. It will ease the withdrawal symptoms but you’re still in for a rough ride over the next 36-48 hours.”
It worked, though. Before I took the second Vicodin that day, the symptoms eased enough for me to uncurl from the fetal position. By sundown I was up and walking around – the bowling ball down to about nine pounds. I was still attached to the crapper for another day but it was spreading out to once every two or three hours.
Even after the physical symptoms eased to the point where I could sit back down at the computer, my mind was still addled. I never really got a high from the meds but I knew in my head they were there. The affect was so outstripped by first the pain and then the physical withdrawal that I never noticed I was in a fog but it took another three days of simply staring at the computer screen and playing mindless games before I could do anything productive.
What have I learned from all of this? THERE’S GOTTA BE ANOTHER WAY!
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