Desperately Seeking Oxycodone

“The doctor didn’t put his name on the prescription, or his DEA number. We tried calling the clinic but they didn’t return our call.”
“What do you mean? I saw his name on it. His and some other doctor I didn’t recognize.”
“His name isn’t on it. We need that and the his DEA number.”
I’m wondering if this isn’t because it’s my second prescription for pain medication in four days. I’m certain I saw his name on the script.
“Look, they gave it to me so I wouldn’t be in pain over the weekend. I need it.”
“I’ll try calling again.”
“That won’t do any good, they’re closed over the weekend.”
She tells me they can’t fill it without talking to the doctor and they’ll keep trying. They’ll call me if they hear anything.

At home I look over how much pain medication I’ve got left from prior prescriptions: Three 5MG oxycodone from the prescription I got on Tuesday, when they cleaned out the wound in my heel, removed diseased bone, and opened the wound channel. Three 7.5MG hydrocodone from a prescription over a month ago, when a doctor used some pliers to break off bone chips to see what kind of infection I’ve got. Seven 5MG hydrocodone from the time between the surgery and the bone culture. It might be enough to get me through the weekend if I supplement it with red wine.

I wash down a pain pill with red wine.

An hour later I call the pharmacy. The automated system recognizes my phone number, asks for my birth date, then tells me the prescription is still being processed. I say I want to talk to the pharmacist. She tells me she wasn’t able to reach the doctor, but she’ll keep trying.

The funny thing is, yesterday I was wondering if I should ask for another prescription. After Tuesday’s surgery the pain was constant for a couple of days, manageable with the pills, and then it dropped off to where I was able to cut back on the pills.

Then the universe said I should get more pain medication.

Every weekday I spend an hour and fifty minutes in pure oxygen at two atmospheres pressure. It’s called hyperbaric oxygen treatment. It's supposed to help heal wounds that won't heal - like I've got in my right foot.

A very nice nurse (Shirley) checks my pulse, temperature, blood pressure and blood sugar levels before the treatment. This is usually after I’ve changed out of all my clothing and into two hospital gowns, one for the front and one for the back. They don’t want you bringing anything into the chamber that might make a spark. Sparks and pure oxygen are a fatal combination. Boom and burn. They even have you wear a bracelet attached to a grounding wire so you don’t build up a static charge.

I select a movie from the extensive collection Shirley curates, then lie down on a stretcher. She drapes a sheet over my legs and asks if I want a blanket (no), extra pillows (yes, one), water (yes) and a urinal (yes. I’ve never used it but if I need it, I want it there). Usually she then puts me in the clear acrylic tube where the treatment takes place, seals the chamber and motions for me to open the top of the water bottle so the pressure differential doesn’t make the water shoot out when I open it. She sometimes asks a question or says a few words over a phone hooked into the chambers sound system. The air pressure changes. I squeeze my nose and push air through it to equalize the pressure – like I’d do in an airplane descending. I do this a few times until the pressure isn’t building anymore.

That’s a usual day. Yesterday was different. The doctor who has to be there for the treatment to start was running late. The two other patients who have treatment at the same time I do were already prepped and ready to go into their chambers. As the minutes went by they started napping. I talked with the nurse in charge. She’s always pleasant and upbeat. She makes what could be a stressful, frightening procedure into something nice - a restful time watching a movie.

Another nurse comes in. The doctor is held up in surgery. It will be at least another fifteen minutes.

I start chatting with the nurse about how this will impact her schedule. Apparently fifteen minutes in doctor time is likely to be thirty or more in normal time. The two patients who have treatment after ours is done will be running late. I’ll be running late for my post-treatment wound care appointment. After that I’ll be late going to the hospital to get the penicillin for my PICC line pump.

I suggest that perhaps they could change my dressing now, before the treatment, instead of after.

The people who would usually change it are busy with other patients, but the nice nurse agrees to do it. Usually, getting the dressing changed is somewhat unpleasant. It is, after all, an open wound. They have to take the dressing out, rinse/clean the wound, poke around a bit, and then pack in a new dressing.

But I hadn’t counted on how raw it would be after the surgery, or the new complication due to the tubing for the mechanical pump they’d set up during the surgery to drain the wound.

So when the nice nurse went to remove the dressing and pump tube, I was screaming in pain. I screamed multiple times when they were taking out the packing/tubing, screamed when they were cleaning out the hole in my heel – a hole so deep it went all the way to the bone, and screamed when they repacked it – they, because by this time the nurses who usually changed my dressing had come in and the nice nurse was kind of patting/rubbing my arm in a reassuring way, which was nice but didn’t relieve the pain.

It looked like the other two guys who get treatment when I do slept through the whole thing, but I suspect they were simply trying to give me the illusion they hadn’t heard me screaming in pain – which is a kindness. It’s embarrassing to have people see you like that. I apologized to the nice nurse and told her I hadn’t expected it to be so painful – although if I thought about it – having had someone scraping out diseased bone and flesh only four days earlier – I should have realized it was going to hurt much more than usual.

So, I decided to ask for more pain medication. Good thing too, because changing the dressing aggravated it to levels similar to post surgery.

But now the pharmacy wouldn’t give it to me.

I called the wound care center and got a recording “If this is an emergency call 911. Our normal hours are..” Nothing about getting anyone after hours. Nothing on the website either, but the website was part of the hospital across the street from the wound care center. As it happened, due to an earlier incident where a Short Stay Supervisor helped me out when my penicillin pump tried to kill me (by pumping oxygen into my vein) I had a hospital number to call for help on a weekend. The supervisor remembered me, found the contact number for the doctor who wrote the prescription and left a message. The doctor called the pharmacy, they called me, and I ended up getting my meds.

So now I can relax – until Monday when they’ll probably need to unpack it again so the doctor who did the surgery can look at his handiwork. This time I’m going to take pain medication BEFORE they do it again.