The Great Pill Debate of 2009

The following story was published in Bricolage's Signature Series. Bricolage is a literary magazine run by the University of Washington.

My Mom and I have one thing in common: We both take a lot of pills. Vicodin, Percocet, Methadone, Oxycotin--these are names familiar to us both, brands that invoke the same questions in each of our minds: How many? How strong? How much? But instead of being a point of connection between the two of us (we share the same preferences, after all), these magical, multi-colored tablets will forever push us apart. I know this because my mom watches Oprah.

"Today this dad wanted to be the cool dad," my mom tells me. We're in the kitchen, which is where she usually recounts that day's episode. The way she says cool dad makes me think of a balding man wearing slacks and sunglasses. "So he starts giving his son some of his pain medication. At first he let's him take them for headaches, but before you know it, he starts letting his son throw parties. All because he wants to be the cool dad."

Mom sits at the kitchen table in her blue bathrobe. Her eyes are bloodshot and far away, and though she can't take a shower or put on a full outfit, she still insists on doing her hair; gel-stiff curls of brown and gray frame her face. As she tells me about Oprah, her mind abuzz with opiates, I try to envision what she must have imagined when she heard all this: Perhaps a rowdy, sixteen-year old boy waving a scepter, throwing blue, green, and orange pills in the air like confetti, which his friends nibble from the floor. All the while, the pathetic man who wanted nothing more than to be a cool dad watches nervously through the window, biting his nails to nubs as they steal first his alcohol, his keys, and finally, the car.

"And you know what happened?" mom asked, finishing the story. "That poor girl, their neighbor, got set on fire." She finishes and leans back, wearing the incredulous face she expects me to mirror.

I'm not so impressed. "Don't you think that girl would have been set on fire without the pills?" I ask.

Mom blinks a few times, considering this. "No," she says finally. "I think it was because of the pills."

Now I'm in a tough situation. I'm forced to either agree with my mom or express my true opinion. Normally, I would take the most nuetral route, but this is a sensitive issue between us, a long-running contest: She's just reopened the Great Pill Debate of 2005. The Debate has roots reaching back to 2003, when mom was a relatively healthy person with a herniated disk between vertebrae L4 and L5. She was prescribed a bottle of fat white pills for the pain, Vicodin, and I snuck one or two. They were fun, but mostly underwhelming for their mammoth size; this was before I knew Vicodin was loaded with Tylenol and contained very little actual narcotic. Fast forward to 2005, when mom has the artificial disk installed that will, years later, begin to force apart her spine. Now mom is dabbling in Oxycotin, which are smaller, but infinitely better. They weigh almost nothing, though one 10 mg tablet is enough to make me itch all over, talk-non stop, and have dreams when I'm not really sleeping. I am immediately a fan for life.

Followers of the debate should note that, at this time, I was a senior in high school, and despite my near-perfect grades, I was threatened with expulsion on a weekly basis. For the most part, it was the truancy they didn't like. To combat the classroom boredom, irritation, and restlessness from which I suffered, I used mom's pills. As far as I was concerned, I needed them to get through my day as much as she did.

Then, one rainy winter morning, the pills were gone. I went into the cupboard and that small orange bottle simply wasn't there. I took out everything else--old antibiotics, mystery pills with five-syllable names, even over-the-counter containers of Ibuprofen--but the Oxycotin was nowhere to be found. Late for school already, I had to choose something on the fly. I took the brand with the X in the name (it sounded the most narcotic), and pocketed a handful of pills before leaving to school.

The pills were called Flexoril, and I took them for almost a month before discovering they were muscle relaxants. No major accidents occurred: I fell asleep during class, dozed at friend's houses, and twice, I woke up at a green light with cars honking behind me. The episode ended when, after barely making it home and stumbling to bed one night, I left the remaining pills in my jeans and deposited them in the laundry basket the next morning. Checking for chapstick, pens, and other pocket-based laundry offenders, my mom found the pills, and everything was on the table.

The Great Pill Debate of 2005 lasted only two hours. We sat facing each other at our oak kitchen table, each of us with our own glass of iced water, like lawyers. Mom brought notes; I brought rage. Her main points of argument were that I was just like my father, I didn't love her, and I had a problem with substance abuse. She told me that I had taken too many withdrawals from the bank of trust, and that my account was overdrawn. My defense revolved around a single, two-part argument: I did not have a problem, and everything was fine (though I did point out that her bank-of-trust metaphor was absolute bullshit, and that she could go fuck herself).

And that was that.

Had there been any coverage on the debate, my mom might have made the following press release. "After much deliberation, we've concluded that prescription painkillers are beneficial for people sick in the body. People sick in the head, like my son, cannot be trusted with narcotics." This might not seem like new thinking now, but at the time, it was revolutionary: Pills were not good or bad; people were good or bad. Pills simply illuminated that difference.

The second conclusion, which none but the closest followers of the debate were privy too, was that I was personally unfit to deal in the realm of narcotics, that I would ultimately skew the discussion and make any reasonable conversation on the subject impossible. It was decided that I should move in with my father immediately.

The Great Pill Debate of 2005 was settled. That is, until the case was reopened this year, when mom, facing a third back surgery (the artificial disk between L4 and L5 now steadily pushing apart the surrounding vertebrae), asked if I could live with her for three months to help out. Major duties would include house-cleaning, cooking, assisting her to and from the bathroom, up and down the stairs, and lastly, picking up and doling out her medication. With this agreement came the silent understanding that the debate was once again in question: My ban from narcotics had been lifted.

This morning's conversation of Oprah was her way of reopening the floor.

I have the overwhelming desire to tell her I still use narcotics, that although I rarely buy them, I still enjoy the occasional pill that finds its way into my possession. I want to tell her that I've been okay for four years now, that I'm going to stay okay, even if it means I won't be perfect. I want to tell her that if she would let me chew up one 20 mg Oxycotin for ever 100 mg she takes, we might even spend some quality time together: I'd be feeling good enough to watch Oprah.

But I know I can't say that, and maybe she knows I want to. Maybe that's why she told me the story of the cool dad and the girl being lit on fire: It's a story that can't be argued against. Parents should not give their children prescription pills.

Mom is waiting for me to say something nasty about the father, that he was an idiot, that if he had any brains, he would know how to have a good time with his son without having house parties and nearly burning the neighborhood to a crisp. "I guess it wouldn't have happened without the pills," I say finally. "Some people just don't know when to stop."

And that's it: I have admitted my own defeat. I take mom's plate and put it in the sink. I scrape away the egg yolk that has hardened to the ceramic since we started talking. When I finish, I open the cupboard and take out her bottle of Oxycotin, tapping two 20 mg tablets into my palm. I set them on the tablecloth next to her glass of water.

The Giant Woodpecker Living Beneath my House

It's been going on for weeks. Every morning I wake up thinking that the builders have finally returned to finish the house. It sounds just like hammering, like they're finally nailing down the shingles that keep blowing off, or securing the handrails that come loose when leaned on too heavily. So I lay in bed with my eyes closed, imagining that when I come downstairs I'll see three men--trustworthy in stained plaid shirts and three-day scruff--taking a much-needed break. I'll ask them if they would like some coffee. "Hell yes we'd like some coffee," they'll say, and I'll put on a pot and ask how the morning's task is coming along.
Of course, no one has come to finish the house. There's no money left for anything: I can't even afford to have the giant woodpecker taken care of. My sister tells me that I should do it myself, that I could flush it out with a hose, or scare it off by banging a couple pans together. But I'm not that kind of guy (plus, I wouldn't want to ruin my pans; they're the nicest things I own). So I put up with it. I'm at work for the better part of the day, anyway.
When I come home each night, the giant woodpecker is still at it. I figure that maybe he's only trying to keep warm, too. I imagine that smaller creatures, like dust mites and germs, are perhaps driven mad by the sound of my chattering teeth, or the fleshy grate of my palms rubbed together. I rationalize like this as I eat my Cup of Noodles, as I watch grainy NBA games, and finally, as I read the business section of yesterday's paper. But when I crawl into bed, I can't rationalize it any longer. It's my basement after all, unfinished as it may be, and it's not exactly fair for some giant woodpecker to move in without my permission. I lay with my hands clenched, swearing to myself that after just two more of those house-shaking knocks, I'm going to pound my fist on the wall until that giant woodpecker cools it. I could take a quiet tap-tapping--even a soft rap-rapping--but this heavy pounding is just too much. I decide that tonight, I'm going to do something about it.
I take deep breaths until my anger evaporates, until my heart beats in sync with the pecking. When I walk downstairs, I'm calm. I'm collected. I pull the string on the basement's single light bulb, and the room flickers to life. I focus my gaze on the pupil of the woodpecker, which is larger than my entire head. His eyes are empty and flat, but I can feel his stare: It's colder than the wind howling through the unfinished siding. I ask if he'd like some coffee, and he tells me that hell yes, he'd like some coffee. I ask how the pecking is coming along, and he says fine, fine, it's coming along just fine. Then I ask him when he's going to be leaving. He doesn't respond, so I follow up quickly: It's not that I mind, but how do I explain to guests that there's a giant woodpecker living beneath my house? He's quiet, considering this, and then he asks me how I would feel, instead, if I had to explain the unfinished house hanging above my head? That's why he keeps pecking, he says. He's too embarrassed to stop. I almost ask him why he doesn't leave, but that's a stupid question. I read the business section of the paper, I'm not a moron. So I nod, and I take a few steps back up the stairs. I turn to look at the woodpecker a last time before turning off the light, and again I see the enormous eye with my tiny, convex reflection frozen in its center.