An opiate, CTS and The White Rabbit1




At this point, Karnak would tear open the envelope and announce that, "The question is: Name a painkiller, a source of pain, and what shows up in your dreams if you take the first one."

About six weeks ago I developed Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. It had been coming on for years, as lampwork bead-making is notorious for bringing its onset. I flipped over to full-blown CTS when I shucked a bushel of oysters. Susie and I set a new personal record of 90 at one setting. Within a week of shucking the last one, I knew I was in trouble. A week later and I could barely feed myself, and fishing was impossible.

Steroids and braces offered some relief, but I proved to be allergic to all of the common painkillers. After a month of sleeping like a baby; that is, waking up hourly, crying like a baby, Susie and I both needed some relief. The doctor suggested an opiate based nasal spray that promised to offer 12-hour relief. The doctor mentioned that, although addictive, because this particular compound offers up, what children of the 60's would refer to as a " Bad Trip," addiction was not a serious threat. When Susie picked up the prescription, the Pharmacist consulted with Susie, first to confirm that she not the client that had developed a particular fondness for the medication, then to warn of its addictive potential.

After reading through the tome that came taped to the prescription bottle, I noticed that insomnia was a common side effect. It is 4:00 AM on the second night of the medication. Insomnia is not exactly what they meant. I have spent much of the last two days with my face buried in a pillow and my eyes closed, it is rest that I am not getting. Soon after I hit the pillow I start dreaming. The problem is in two parts. The first part is that I am in only the very shallowest form of sleep. I am aware of the dream, the fan; Susie's breathing, all at the same time. I can open my eyes and the dream stops. As soon as I close my eyes, the dreams resume like some goofy Tivo experience, right where I left off. The second part of the problem is the more interesting of the two.

Psychedelic dreams, 100 percent of time that I am sleeping, are the real reason I'm getting no rest. The latest dream involved me looking for something in a sea of tools and appliances set over a Shuttle view of the Earth. Objects would change colors and textures to please me. Things distort and morph into other objects. It is so strange and obvious that I snap out of the sleep, look around, then resume the dream within seconds.

One of the dreams had me looking over a large US map, planning a trip from Santa Fe to Denver, but I also wanted to see some of Texas. The map accommodated me with the panhandle of Texas distorting and oozing into my route. I was further accommodated with the Alamo, from San Antonio, and Billy Bobs, from Ft. Worth relocating to my route. One of which, if you get to Texas, is a must-see.

The doctor was right; addiction won't be a problem. I know where this will lead. You have seen fashion models that are made up to be Heroin Chic, with the dark circles around their eyes and the rest of their face fish-belly white. I could be there in a couple of weeks. I am reminded of the scene from Pulp Fiction where Marsellus' girlfriend Mia is at the brink of death from a heroin overdose. Her eyes were very dark and the rest of her a clammy white (Even with very bad dope, the onset of this bad of an appearance would have to take weeks, but I do recall being so transformed by a Hardee's Fish Sandwich). At what has to be her last second, a 4-inch needle is plunged into her heart and she is given a few CCs of Adrenaline. She sets bolt upright, with that big glass syringe still attached to the needle in her chest.

Minus that last-second intervention, the scene would have to be more Elvis-like. Being found in some grotesque, tipped-over Yogi position, in front of a toilet with pants around ankles, cooling ones face on the Linoleum. The face cooling would continue until the entire body would attain the Linoleum temperature.

I don't thing addiction is going to be a problem. I am fine during the day. If I owned a Piper Saratoga I would not want to try my first IFR approach. For that matter I probably should not be operating a toaster, but I need some sleep. I am skipping the painkiller and am willing to put up with some pain in exchange for a night's sleep. After a two day bad trip and no rest, and after a glass of Scotch Whisky, I am assured a night of healing sleep. When I wake up tomorrow my eyelids are going to be hot from REM sleep. Most likely, I will be drool-glued to my pillow but I will wake up refreshed.

By the way, the white rabbit never showed up, but I did find his business card. The card contained his name, a phone number that I can't remember, and a reminder of what the dormouse said, "Feed your Head."

Incidentally, if you were curious which of the two Texas landmarks I would recommend that you visit, it is Billy Bobs. It is an enormous bar and dance hall located in the stockyards area of Fort Worth. Among other attractions in the place is a bull fighting ring. Not one of those mechanical bulls, an actual bull fighting ring. There probably is no reason to keep bulls around. The sight of the ring probably has an affect on cowboy pretenders as a trip to the Fun House at Fairyland Amusement Park once had on me. The point of any good Fun House is to scare the life out of its customers. Even as an eight-year-old I recognized that most of their efforts were poor, but my brain was about to become permanently etched. Well past any point of no return, we were required to walk down a very narrow hallway. The dimly lit hall had a wall on one side and a gorilla cage on the other. It was obvious that as soon as I was in front of the cage, the beast would spring from the unlit depths of the cage and grab me. I knew that I would be no match for the beast, and the bars were wide enough that it could hold me with one hand and turn me with the other. This way it would be able to gnaw all of the meat from my bones. Needless to say, there was no gorilla. Likewise, Billy Bobs needs no bulls. The cowboy impostors get one look at the ring and are able to give it a wide berth, seeking a corner of the place that precludes eye contact with the thing.

You may be asking yourself, "What does all of this have to do with the Big Bus Adventure?" Speed Bump

1 Click to see the lyrics of "The White Rabbit" by Grace Slick
Feedback

From: Pat Koenig
Steve, you really are missing your true vocation. Quit with the beads and write a book. Won't help the CTS but you'll definitely have a best seller and keep your friends amused. Love to you and Susie.

From: Bud Ackley
You know I couldn't pass this one up. Two years ago I had some real tooth problems, and my dentist whipped up a temporary patch and a codine prescription to get me through Thanksgiving weekend. Not an opiate. I dreamed numbers and letters, but not clearly or in the lucid state you describe, just zzzzzzzhhhhhhmmmmmmmm333333339393939339399339mmmmmmmmmm . . . rushing by my mind's eye, all with an intense irritation. I didn't use it again, just lots of Nuprin.

From: Bobbie in Virginia
I am a bead lover and a budding maker. Although I very much appreciate your how-to pages, this is fantastic. What a storyteller you are. Maybe you should write a book.

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