Source:  USA Today 
Contact:  June 9,1997

In postop hell, patient senses heroin's allure

By Jonathan Kellerman

    Several years ago, after cancer surgery, I awoke in a hospital recovery
room disoriented, stuporous and gripped by total body pain. I called out for
help but managed only a pathetic squeak. A compassionate nurse rushed over,
took one look at me and injected something into my IV line.

    Within seconds, everything changed. No longer was every muscle aflame. The
steel shutters masquerading as my eyelids morphed into fluttering butterflies,
and the cement sacks that had replaced my lungs grew light as cotton filled
with sweet air. All at once, life was rosy and ripe with possibility.

    Blessed euphoria, but it was shortlived. Moments later, I was back in
postop hell. Then back to nirvana, only to be slammed down rudely again. This
pattern repeated itself until I regained the ability to speak and asked the
nurse: "What is that stuff?"

    "Demerol. Would you like more?"

    The urge to say "go for it" was nearly overpowering, But this was Demerol,
a narcotic awfully similar to morphine. For all intents and purposes, I was
flying on medical heroin. I opted instead for a single dose of oral Percoset,
then eventually downshifted to Tylenol for the remainder of my
hospitalization. The pain wasn't fun, but it ended.

    As a psychologist, I have waded through the psychosocial ruins created by
drug addiction and have offered empathy,analysis and behavioral prescriptions.
I thought I understood the ordeals of spouses and children, even the junkie's
hunger for dope. That day taught me I never came close.

    Any substance capable of transporting a psyche from agony to rapture that
powerfully and quickly is beyond empathy and rationality. Mophiates stimulate
a level of pleasure incomprehensible to those who haven't experienced it. Part
of my ability to resist the quick fix came from the knowledge of hard cold,
medical facts. But the main reason was that I had too much to lose: a great
wife, terrific kids, a promising second career as a novelist and an excellent
prognosis for survival.

    But what about the ghetto teenager dodging drivebys? The poverty
stricken orphan bottlefed on futility? The suburbanites saddled with a
biological tendency to soulplundering depression? Out of that kind of
despair, up against the power of drugs, "Just Say No" is a moronic joke. The
same goes for other pat slogans, canned cop lectures, presidential task
forces, and ohsoclever commercials trumpeting yourbrainondopefriedegg
analogies.

    In our efforts to curb narcotics use, we talk a lot about the pain
associated with drugs, but rarely do we acknowledge the pleasure. Eight hours
a day flipping burgers will not compete with Lady Dope and unless we
acknowledge that, out preaching and propaganda are doomed to failure.
 
   Maybe even with that, we don't stand a chance. Virtually ever society has
accommodated some degree of chemically induced thrill system, be it tobacco,
alcohol, hemp, magic mushrooms or rainforest herbs. Perhaps we have only two
choices: impose the death penalty Singaporestyle  quick, inevitable, public
  on all pushers, and users or legalize the stuff and make it cheap and
available so the rest of us don't have to suffer the muggings and burglaries
by dope fiends at the height of their cravecurve.

    One thing is certain: Our present approach  flimsy attempts to reduce the
supply of illegal drugs in the face of untrammeled demand  is a dismal dud as
drug lords soak away billions and drugprevention bureaucrats line up for more
tax money.
 
   Unless we separate sin from sensation and understand the power of
intoxication, the billions of dollars we have poured into the pathetic
morality play known as "the war on drugs" will continue to be as productive as
snowshoes in the Sahara.

    Jonathan Kellerman is the author of two volumes of psychology, two
children's books and 12 novels of suspense. His current book is "The Clinic".