The Good Junkie
The Good Junkie
The first hospital I worked in was affectionately known as "the heroin
addict's graveyard." The experience I had at the time with substance
abusers whom I knew was limited to recreational marijuana users, who
occasionally dabbled in harder drugs at parties. No one I knew
personally at the time was fully committed to the junkie lifestyle.
Working at the hospital though, I got to meet the professionals, those
that really had what it took to hang in there and go the junkie
distance.
Coming from so sheltered a background as my own, I imagined that the
average drug abuser would look like a hardened criminal. I envisioned
tattoos of pentagrams and wicked laughter, and aversion to light. I was
young. When I worked with this group of people, however, I learned
quickly that they simply didn't have the visible distinctions of evil I
was hoping for. They carried no pitchforks, they didn't have any
special membership cards, and they had no nubs on their heads where
their horns would come out. In fact, no eyes are more earnest, more
grateful, or more pleading than the eyes of a junkie. They are a
desperate people. They came from all walks of life, and by the time
they came to us, they had learned that their walk had led them to
critical illness, and possibly death. Even so, the hospital was an
oasis of sorts for many of them. Our staff was attentive to them, we
cared for them and about them, and we had food. So naturally, we had
frequent flyers.
Intravenous drug abuse often leads to a very weakened, very sick heart.
Therefore, my unit being a cardiac unit saw substance abusers
regularly. They were young, old, male and female. All of them had
stories, many of them were highly intelligent, and no one on earth
would appreciate what they were given more. They had McGuyver-like
ingenuity, and knew anatomy well enough to go on our payroll in some
instances. While our staff was often completely puzzled about how on
earth an IV was going to make it into their weak, and seemingly
non-existent veins, junkies came up with suggestions and were quick to
find solutions. I once told one that if he got cleaned up we could get
him a lab coat and a stethoscope and try to pass him off as a vascular
surgeon when we had tough IV sticks to do.
I had at the time, the nickname of "Blair" from my co-workers, due in
part because I came from a small town named Bel Air, and also do to the
fact that I was just so very suburban. Well, I still am actually.
Junkies happen to have a suburban-o-meter that they get once they get
deep enough into the lifestyle. They live a life that is sustained by
manipulation and desperate acts, as the fine print that is often missed
about this lifestyle is that it is very, very expensive. You won't get
off cheap abusing drugs, that's for sure. I don't know if it's enough
to keep kids away from drugs, but I'm trying to sell teachers I meet on
the idea that maybe they should take the 'kids, don't do drugs, it's a
really bad economy,' approach for the D.A.R.E. program.
This leads me to Brian (name changed), who was admitted to the hospital
for endocarditis, a bad heart infection. He was 18, very, very thin,
and had eyes that looked as though he was on the verge of crying. He
was nice, he had great manners, and said he was afraid of needles. Yes,
afraid of needles, despite tracks going up both arms. He was my first
junkie. He quickly became my favorite patient, as he was just so
appreciative, and he was just so sad.
"You left this the last time you were here," he said in his very soft
voice. It was my pen. Pens go to pen purgatory when they leave your
pocket in a hospital. Staff members, visitors and patients themselves
all steal pens without shame, it's just how we do things. I do it
myself pretty regularly. I sent one of the hospitals I worked for years
later a pen bouquet after I left them. It was full of all the pens that
I'd found in my apartment during my move that I'd stolen from the
hospital. It had to be at least a hundred pens in that bouquet. But
this teenage boy, with the tracks on his arm was remembering to give me
a pen I'd left the night before. It made me think.
I noticed a lot about this boy, but what was most notable to me was
that he didn't have anyone visiting him. Where was his family? Where
were all those people that had promised him that drugs would help him
cope with his life? He was a teenager, and there was no one visiting
him while he was critically ill in a hospital. There weren't flowers,
or cards, or obnoxious phone calls to the nurse's station about his
well-being. When people in my congregation growing up went to the
hospital they were overwhelmed with these tokens of concern. Life is a
team effort, who was on Brian's team, and WHERE were they?