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I went to the dermatologist the other day for the first time in many years. I had a little inky-looking spot on my arm, and my doctor wanted a dermatologist to take a look. So I went earlier this week, and I had my 8-year-old with me.
We went into the room and the doctor came in and looked at the spot. It was about the size of one small ink dot. He said, “It looks benign. But what do you say we just take it off?”
I said sure, let’s do it. I’m a big, tough guy who’s had the ends of his feet amputated, for God’s sake. I can handle a little nick on the arm, right? (Quick aside: If you’re new to this newsletter, I’m not making a joke about my feet. I got really sick in college with bacterial meningitis and ended up having all 10 toes—the ends of both feet—amputated 15 years ago. I’ve had probably five surgical procedures on my feet and a few others over the years, too.)
So the nurse came in and she started to numb my arm. I didn’t feel nervous at all. No fast breathing. No sweaty palms. It didn’t seem like my heart rate went up as far as I could tell. Nothing. No big deal. When she said she was done numbing it, I didn’t even know she had done it. I looked down and saw the needle going in and out, and I felt fine.
Then I didn’t.
I felt this wave rush up through my body and into my head. It was not the pleasurable kind. I did not feel a warm haze, like many of us describe when we talk about our early days of drinking. It was terrible. I felt a total loss of control.
And then… the. Lights. Went. Out.
I woke up and there was an entirely different set of people in the room. I had been sitting down, so I didn’t hit the ground or anything. But I completely went night-night, with my eyes open, apparently, and my 8-year-old had a look on her face like, “What in the hell did I just see?”
I was laying in more sweat than a marathon runner would generate. Just a disgusting pool of water. They were giving me water and a granola bar like I was a toddler in a onesie waiting for his little snacky in the afternoon.
They felt like it was because I hadn’t eaten anything that morning. I like that answer better than the alternative, which is that I am a dopey old weak dude fainting over a 10-second medical procedure. But that’s just ego and insecurity stuff.
What really lingers to me is an unfortunate reminder about what the end of my drinking and drugging days. I would experiment with things, push the boundaries of what I could consume and then there would sometimes be a moment where what was done was done, and my head would start to spin and I would lay down and I would know that whatever was going to happen was already happening. I had no control over whether I was going to black out, pass out, wake up, not wake up, nothing. I remember feeling extreme fear in those moments, and yet I would do it again the next day.
Eventually I didn’t want to live like that any more. And that dermatology appointment reminded me that my active addiction doesn’t involve warm and fuzzy numbing; it involves basically overdosing with substances that might or might not kill me, paralyze me, cause me to end up in a coma.
So when I woke up at the dermatologist’s office, I went through the whole “my kindergartner seems light-headed” process. I drank some cold water and ate the granola bar like a good little boy, and I improved right away. They put an ice pack on my neck to help my booboo heal up, and within five minutes I was okay. My daughter politely asked if she could wait outside, and somebody walked her out. I think she was genuinely traumatized by it a bit, which is the most unfunny moment in an otherwise hilarious incident. She seemed okay as the day went on, but if at all possible, I won’t be exposing her to anything like that again.
And I don’t want to expose myself to that, either. It’s such a good reminder about how that voice in your head that whispers, “Hey, maybe a couple of drinks wouldn’t be so bad. Just take the edge off.” I don’t take the edge off, and I want to avoid that feeling of total loss of body control as much as humanly possible. So just for today, I will not be drinking or drugging… and I think I might abstain from minor surgery for a bit, too.
This newsletter is a place of joy and laughter about the deadly serious business of sobriety. So, as I will often do, let me close with a joke:
At 2 a.m., Mike finally vacated the stool he’d been gracing all day and went outside. Leaning against the wall, he contemplated going to a club for a few more, thought better of it, and decided to go home. Spotting a car with a sign on the roof, he hailed it and fell inside. “Take me to Mount Washington,” he mumbled.
“I know a short cut,” replied the driver, who proceeded to the nearest police station, where Mike was booked for public intoxication. Looking up, the desk officer remarked, “Did he give you any trouble?”
“Not at all,” said the cop who’d delivered him. “He opened the door and climbed right in.”
(Credit: AA Grapevine, December 2002, Ken P. from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania)
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