“I couldn't take that kind of pain, not all the time like that. So they went in again. My doctor and another dude from New York. They did a better job, and when I woke up, I was able to back down on the Dilaudid a little bit. It wasn't constant—the pain, I mean. It would get really irritated like once a week. The other times, the arm would tingle but it wouldn't hurt.
“Well I was still inpatient, in a rehab facility. And when you're inpatient, it takes a long time for doctors and nurses to make decisions for you. So if I had a flare-up on a Thursday, they'd keep me on the heavy dose of Dilaudid until maybe Tuesday—long enough so everyone signing off on things felt sure. Maybe Wednesday and Thursday would be taper-down days. And then maybe I'd have another attack on Friday.”
Her eyebrows arch. “So you were on something all the time.”
I nod. “Yeah. I never had a week without a pain attack, so I was always on the Dilaudid. I was never really conscious. I just...” I rub my face. “I couldn't remember anything. On the days I got the most, I would just...float. And it reminded me of being in a coma again.”
I glance at Meredith. Her face is a mask of sympathy.
“Eventually they backed it down, and I went through withdrawal. I wanted to go off it, but I couldn't stand the pain without it. When I would do PT for my hand and hip—I hurt my hip, too—they would have to give me some more in my IV before they even wheeled me down to the PT room. It just hurt too fu— fracking much. I went home with an oral prescription for it, and I thought I could do it different than they did in rehab. I would try not to take it unless I knew it was going to have a pain attack. So I went home and I didn't take it.” I laugh. “When I wouldn't take it, I'd flip my shit. Start seeing things and hearing things. I'd get all achy like I had the flu and I’d get really sick to my stomach.
“So after a while of that, I went back to taking it. I just took it like they told me to. Every day. I couldn't drive, and I couldn't ride a bike. I didn't even have the energy to do PT. Sometimes between doses I would get edgy and my mind would do weird shit. Other times I would forget to get it refilled.
“That's what happened. I had two different strengths of Dilaudid—one was kind of a top-off dose for when my usual dose didn't deal with the pain, to help me avoid having to go to the ER for IV meds. One night I got a bad headache and I had forgotten to re-fill my regular dose. I had one more of those weaker pills left, so I took it and of course it didn't work. I should have had a few more of them to take before I took the stronger dose. I should only have taken one of the stronger dose, and I did that, but it wasn't enough since I hadn’t had enough of my regular dose. So I took another one of the strong pills. And I guess this was a really bad headache, or maybe I had just built up a tolerance to the Dilaudid...because that didn't work either. I think the problem was that I had no idea how to deal with pain. I had never had any pain management, so I couldn't take it.”
I suck on the inside of my cheeks, staring at the table because I don't want to look at her.
“I called my pain doc but I didn't get a callback right away and it was three in the morning. I got into the shower with the water on scalding and it helped for a second, but pretty soon the pain was back. I tried cutting the underside of my bicep with a razor blade just as a distraction. It didn't work, so I called the doctor again and when I didn't get him, or one of my friends, I took another Dilaudid. Which didn't work...so then I took another one. Remember this was the top-off dose. One for an emergency, in case the regular dose wasn't working. So I took...three or four. I guess I passed out. I don't know. But the friend I had called couldn't get me when she tried to call me back, so she called my doctors, and when no one could get me a few of them came over.”
The friend was Lizzy, and she still won't talk about that night. I look down, remembering how upset she was, and when I look up Merri is a few steps closer. Her eyes are wide, concerned, like it's not the past but happening right now. “What happened?” she murmurs.
I look her in the eye. “I almost died.” A morose laugh escapes my lips. “Again.
“After that I said no more Dilaudid. I had to find a way to tolerate it without. Something that wouldn't fuck me up every day and make it impossible to live.” I shrug. “So I tried a bunch of different shit, and in the end, I learned to meditate.”
Merri is frowning, shaking her head like she's protesting something unfair. “But that didn't work.”
I frown back. “What do you mean it didn't work?”
“The other day. Yesterday. You were still in so much pain.”
I shrug. “Well, yeah. But you don't see me trying to jump out any windows or light my hair on fire.”
Her lips pull together and her eyes shimmer with tears. “No, Evan,” she says thickly, “but is that the only goal?”
I blink at her. I'm so shocked by her reaction that I don't know what to say. “It only happens every few weeks.”
Her eyes widen, spilling a tear down her cheek. “And that's it? There's nothing they can do for you?”
“It might get better over time.”
“Could you try another surgery?”
“I don't think so. I don't know of a doctor who could do things differently than mine did.”
“Have you looked?”
I stand up, drumming my fingers on the table as my left arm hangs beside me: Illustration A. “No. I mean, what does it matter? It's pain, not cancer.”
“It's your quality of life. Evan, that's everything.”
My name's not Evan. I have to press my lips tightly shut to keep from saying it. With her eyes wet and her face all pinched up, it's like it's her pain and not mine. I've never felt like such a fucking fraud.
Just then, she strides to me and throws her arms around my neck.
22
Merri
I PULL AWAY from him, and I can feel myself blushing. There should be another word for this. One that more resembles burning.
With my hands dangling at my sides where they belong, I glance up at him, feeling like the old-school, mid-twentieth century definition of the histrionic woman.
I mean, it's not like we're good friends or anything. What logical reason do I have to be this worked up over Evan's quality of life?
I get the nerve to peek at him, and I confirm I'm right: He looks edgy. Uncomfortable. Like I've crossed a line.
He shifts his feet, like he wants to step away, but instead of doing that, he looks into my eyes for a few long seconds. The depth of his stare actually makes me shiver; I get the feeling he's trying to find something there. I'm doing the same thing, but whatever I see in the depths of his blue eyes feels nameless.
A second later, he thumbs a tear off my cheek, his perfect lips pressing together in a sad, resigned kind of look. “Don't cry for me, Meredith. I'm doing fine.”
I nod, feeling a glow all over my body because I'm standing so close to him.
I want to touch him. For this reason, I make myself take a small step back, tilting my head up more to meet his eyes. “I'm sorry for going all emo on you.”