I close my eyes, hoping that when I open them again, this is all a bad dream.
But no.
When I come to, Dr. Marishka is quietly speaking to a nurse at the foot of my bed. She notices my movement and finishes her sentence quickly, turning to face me. “Good morning, Alice. How are you feeling?”
“Probably as great as I look.” I try for a smile, but I’m not sure it’s successful as she gives me a sad look.
“The good news is we can try taking off your neck brace today, and I don’t think you need to be on morphine anymore.” With those pieces of good news, I attempt to turn my neck a bit, finding there isn’t as much pain as there once was. Too bad I can’t say the same about my ribs. Who knew bruising your ribs could hurt so much? I sure am glad they didn’t break.
“We can move you to taking oxycodone orally.” The blood in my veins freezes with that word.
She continues to talk, saying something about how I won’t be as sleepy and will be able to stay awake longer, but without pain, but all I can focus on is that she’s planning on putting me on a drug that’s highly addictive.
I don’t know what my mom was on when she died. I don’t know what Arthur chose when he was using, but I know this is a problematic drug when it comes to addiction.
When she finally stops talking, I look at her, my mind made up. “I don’t want to take that. I don’t want anything I could become addicted to or dependent on.”
“Alice, you have a moderate concussion, severely bruised ribs, and your existing neck condition has flared up significantly.” She steps closer to the bed, where I don’thave to strain as much to look at her. “You’re going to be in considerable pain for the next two-to-four weeks. I strongly recommend you take oxycodone or hydrocodone for the next five-to-seven days, then transition to over-the-counter?—.”
“No. I’m sorry, but I’m not going to budge on this. My mother was an addict, and she died of an overdose when I was a child. I just found out the man I love is in NA and has been sober for more than three years. I won’t do anything to jeopardize his recovery. I can’t.” Despite the dryness in my throat, my voice is steady and firm. I don’t need time to consider this. It’s not something I’m willing to budge on. If having a mother as an addict weren’t enough to set me on this path, being in love with one sure is.
“I understand,” she says, looking at the nurse who is taking notes. “We could try amitriptyline for the nerve pain from your neck, high-dose anti-inflammatories, and muscle relaxants. We could also give you a couple of intercostal nerve blocks while you’re here, but I have to warn you, the injections themselves are painful. We can administer the first one later today, then another before you’re discharged tomorrow. They’ll relieve your pain for up to twelve hours, and if it becomes unbearable once you’re home, you could come back.”
“Okay. Yeah. I appreciate that.” My eyes fill with tears. I’m so grateful for her understanding.
The doctor nods. “The reality is, rib injuries hurt. A lot. Even bruised ribs can be quite painful for weeks. I don’t want you suffering unnecessarily, but I also respect you’re considering your home environment. We can start with the non-opioid route and reassess if you’re not managing well.” I wince at her words. I don’t want to have to reassess. “Either way, you’ll need someone to help you athome for at least a week. No lifting or driving, and you’ll need help with daily activities.”
That thought has my chest tightening. I don’t want to put my burdens on Arthur. I don’t want to put them on anyone. But if these last couple of months have taught me anything, it’s that the people around me will want to help. As I look around the room, I see it already—the helping hands, the cooked meals, the check-ins.
I don’t want to ever experience the addictions my mother did, but I think I could become addicted to this feeling. To being cared for and loved.
It’s one more way I don’t want to be like Gran or my mom—I don’t want to be alone, pushing away the people who love me.
Now that I’ve found them, now that I’ve found Arthur, I don’t want to go through life on my own anymore, and I’m certain I won’t have to.
THIRTY-SEVEN
my home, my safe place, my love
Arthur
She didn’t say anything. A single tear rolled down her cheek, and she closed her eyes, eventually falling back asleep as the grogginess of the meds took her under again. But she didn’t say anything after I told her about being an addict, about where I was when she needed me.
I stood, frozen next to the chair I’d become very well-acquainted with, watching her chest rise and fall with every careful breath. The silence felt like a black hole, like it could swallow everything.
My confession hung in the air like smoke. Three years clean, Narcotics Anonymous, the shame I’ve carried—all of it now between us.
Alice’s tears replayed in my mind on a loop. Were they disappointment? Relief? Hurt that I’d hidden this from her?
I couldn’t know, yet I stayed, studying her sleeping face for clues that weren’t there.
This has been the worst part. Not the confession itself,but this liminal space where I don’t know if I’ve just lost everything or if we’re about to start over with honesty surrounding us. I wanted to wake her up, demand an answer. I wanted to run. Instead, I sat vigil, watching over the woman who now knows my worst truth.
It’s beenthree days since the car accident, and today is supposed to be when they stop her morphine and start her on oral opioids. Just thinking about it makes my skin crawl and my stomach turn.
On top of the weight of how things were left yesterday, there’s this crushing realization thatIneed to be her strength. I’m going to help her manage pain medication schedules, support her through recovery, and be the steady presence she needs. But I can feel my own foundation starting to shake. I haven’t called Beau yet today. Every instinct in my recovery toolkit is screaming at me to remove myself from a situation saturated with the very substances that nearly killed me.
But I can’t leave her.Won’tleave her. So instead I’m supposed to somehow compartmentalize watching the woman I love take pills that look exactly like the ones I used to crush and snort, supposed to hand her medication and not think about how easy it would be to palm a few for myself. I’m supposed to be her rock while standing on quicksand.
