A few weeks ago, I linked to Roger Ebert’s takedown of “The Bucket List,” in which he suggests terminally ill cancer patients have better things to do than go globetrotting, and that these things might include “convincing the doc your reports of pain are real and not merely disguising your desire to become a drug addict.”
Funny how often I’ve heard some version of this complaint. For all the wonderful drugs out there to relieve suffering, it can be awfully hard to shake a few loose from your doctor. I’d think a cancer diagnosis would be pretty much a prima facie argument for a key to the medicine chest, but maybe not.
I must look like a tough, strong peasant with a secret stash of pot in her dresser drawer, because in my experience of pain, the best I ever got was Tylenol 3. Episiotomy with tearing at both ends? Damaged knee ligaments? Lateral incisor snapped off in bicycle accident? Tylenol 3. I don’t ask for anything stronger (and, to be sure, it’s always been enough, at least when taken with three glasses of wine), but just once, I’d like to be offered a serious narcotic.
A while back I read a story about how incredibly vile the modeling industry is, and learned that lots of girls live on maintenance doses of Vicodin and clenbuterol, a painkiller and bronchodilator, respectively, both of which help with weight loss (particularly when combined with Marlboro Lights). Celebrities are always checking in and out of rehab for painkiller addiction, which developed, we’re told, after the celebrated one was injured in dance class, or something. Rush Limbaugh’s elephantine thirst for oxycodone, another one of those unfortunate aftereffects of back surgery (again: so we’re told), is legendary.
And I pass an eight-pound infant through my ya-ya, and the best I get is Tylenol 3. It came with a warning that I shouldn’t take too much, because codeine is constipating, and the last thing I’d want to do is push a hard stool through all that beat-up tissue down there. Think how painful that would be. Thanks, nurse.
You know where this is going, don’t you? Heath Ledger, accidental O.D. He had six separate drugs in his system — two painkillers, three anti-anxiety potions and one over-the-counter sleep aid. I’m baffled by this last, as you’d think, after the first five, getting to sleep wouldn’t be a problem. (And I guess, technically, it wasn’t.)
I wasn’t born yesterday; I know how these things work. Ledger didn’t have to cool his celebrated heels for 45 minutes in the doctor’s waiting room before getting a scant five minutes to convince the man with the medical degree to throw a few decent meds his way. I’m just sayin’. The next time slings are slung and the arrows land in my knee, I’m asking for the Full Ledger, or I’m going to know the reason why not.
Lots of dumb ol’ work to do today, so not much bloggage. But a little:
Fort Wayne is called the Summit City, because it sits on the watershed between the Great Lakes and Mississippi drainages. Also, because it lends a touch of cruel irony during the city’s regular floods, like the one it’s having now. Mitch Harper has a nice pic of what happens to a riverside skate park when the river rises.
When the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi died earlier in the week, most of the talk was about the Beatles. But did you know he also had an acolyte in director David Lynch? Who’s sad, but not really:
Well, Maharishi dropped his body. It’s like a man is in a car and the car is old and the man gets out of the car and rolls the car into the water into a lake. Do we feel sorry for the man? The car is gone but the man is there. No problems for Maharishi. People are sad because that voice of wisdom is gone.
I wonder if this means David Lynch will keep making movies after he rolls his car into the lake, so to speak. If so, I’m hoping for more “Mullholland Drive” and less “Wild at Heart.”
Death Comes for Britney Spears, the musical. On YouTube.
Lovely snowy day out there, more on the way. This may screw up our location-shooting plans, a sentence I thought I’d never get the chance to write. Shows what I know.