Drugs sure are
funny critters, aren't they? Scummy
folks, in lieu of any other tangible reason to live, risk their lives and the
lives of others by running illegal varieties across U.S. borders every day and
every night on behalf of far scummier people who bask in the profits of
destroyed lives and death. Border agents
do their best to keep the pathway narrow, of course, but shackled as they are
by Washington hacks (many of whose lives are probably infested with drugs when
they make vital national decisions) and regulations friendly only to drug runners
and illegal aliens, the welcome mat for criminal activity hasn't budged much.
Me, I never
tried marijuana in any form, nor sampled the other illicit drugs. I tend to believe life is horrible enough,
and we should just tolerate it the way nature intended in order to get that
truthful hit of, you know, absolute emotional misery. But drugs?
That's not to say I could avoid illegal drugs.. I served in the Air Force during the Vietnam
Era, when it was common to find pretty much any drug you wanted, either on or
off base. We, the medical corpsmen (or corpse
men, in President Obama's words, bordering upon illiteracy) worked in
hospitals, and off-base drug parties among some medical personnel were not
uncommon -- not that I could blame them, because they really needed escape from
the human agony and stress encountered every day, thanks in no small part to
LBJ's ongoing indecisive self-panic regarding the seemingly endless Southeast
Asian conflict.
One of my
roommates, "busted" off base for drugs, was hospitalized for a while
and then kicked out of the Air Force. To
this day, I'm not altogether sure he didn't want it that way all along. Remember, these were years when the military
draft was in effect, and -- unlike the wonderful, dedicated military members
whom today enlist of their own accord -- a good many servicemen weren't exactly
serving because we were patriots, we were there to avoid draft-dodger prison
sentences. The vast majority performed
assigned duties expertly.
But just because
I never indulged in illegal drugs doesn't mean I wasn't addicted to a
medication. My final 15 months of
service occurred at an Air Force base hospital where I was the one and only
medical person trained in a particular specialty -- physical therapy -- and I
operated my own clinic, and my entire chain of command was the chief of
surgery, followed by the hospital commander.
Their first impression of me may have been lacking, because the very day
I breezed into town, outside the base I got a speeding ticket from a local cop
(I contend this was only because my car had NY plates and this was Georgia, no
fan of northerners. . .), and though I paid a fine right away there was still a
chance that the entire chain of command would be called into court. As if.
Didn't happen, seems physicians were needed at the hospital more than at
some kangaroo court of the deep South.
Not to digress. . .
At some point I
developed a nasty cold or viral infection, and after days of illness ended up
with an overbearing cough. By then, I knew
all the hospital physicians and routinely treated patients referred by each, so
it was no trouble to get a prescription -- in these less-regulated times -- for
anything I wanted. So, I needed
something for the cough, and a script for a brand-name cough syrup
containing codeine was provided. Oh
yeah, that stuff did the trick. The
syrup, brown like Coca Cola, curbed the cough until I didn't care about
the cough anymore -- but I cared about the codeine in the syrup. A lot.
That was some pretty decent cough syrup.
So decent, in fact, that I went from hospital doctor to doctor, none
knowing of my similar requests of their colleagues, for extra
prescriptions. For a few weeks I downed
a fair amount of "cough syrup" both on and off duty and achieved a bit
of very nice tranquility. The mild
addiction was brief and I eventually knew enough to extract myself (and my
precious liver) from its joys, but I entertained a better appreciation for
harmless medication addictions gone wild.
That was a
lesson I should have learned during a duty assignment at another Air Force
base, when a pharmacy specialist airman (and friend) who filled a prescription
for me replied, when I asked if a particular medication was "good"
for me, "Bob, none of the stuff in this room is good for
you." I knew what he meant right
away. Wrong word, good. He was always witty and intellectual and
right to the point -- and, not too much to my surprise, in later years I
discovered that he held a high position with a U.S. government cabinet-level
department.. Apparently, his talents
extended far beyond an occasion where, despite my protests, he easily picked
two locks on my locked briefcase in less than one minute. Maybe in less than 30 seconds.
Though not
having much interaction with the hospital pharmacy at my final USAF base, I did
make some very basic observations.
First, the staff displayed a large jar in which was deposited one each
of every pill in stock, and even in 1971 that glass jar, stuffed with capsules
and pills of all shapes, sizes and hues, reflected rainbow colors like a
kaleidoscope. Why so many pills in the
world? What's the cost and who makes the
money?
Second, I
frequently witnessed the arrival of what I almost assumed were fashion models,
a never-ending cavalcade of impeccably attired young men, routinely making
their way to either the pharmacy, physicians' offices or administrative
areas. These, I was to learn from folks
who knew, were the pushers -- the sales people representing various drug
companies. And they brought presents --
not only medication samples, but little forget-me-not gifts such as pens,
posters suitable for framing, paperweights and the like. Things to keep visits and drugs fresh in the
minds of those with the power to purchase and prescribe medications. I still have a series of artists' adventure
scene posters -- given to me by the chief of surgery (my boss), who received
them from a salesman, and probably would have thrown them out otherwise because
such "gifts" materialized constantly.
More? Okay.
As my final Air Force weeks wound down in 1972, I started collecting my
own personal pharmacy to take into civilian life. Just in case. Just in case. It wasn't difficult. I simply visited the emergency room up the
hall from my clinic and grabbed whatever I desired from the medicine cabinet
(yes, life was so carefree back then. . .) with the approval -- make
that nonchalance -- of fellow corpsmen who were counting their own days until
exit. By this time the military was
really cracking down on illegal drugs, but nobody was really watching the legal
medication treasure chest.
When my
discharge day arrived at last, I had already packed up my personal belongings,
and at customary Air Force expense they were shipped back home by a major
moving company. Among several cardboard
boxes of stuff accumulated over four years of service -- and, fortunately, not searched for by
them -- was, I guess you could call it, a generous pirate's booty of
Darvon, Librium, Valium, Compazine and a wealth of enough other bottled goodies
to make a street corner drug fiend lapse into ecstasy. Just in case.
Alas, there
really is no exciting climax to this story.
My ill-gotten collection of colorful capsules and pills remained
concealed and safe for a few years, untouched.
Just in case never came, but I stayed ready, just in case. I nearly forgot about them, but one day I
simply gathered the tokens of just in case together and threw them out,
no longer even sure why I shipped them home (over multiple and forbidden state lines, yet, wha-hoooooo!).
Okay, so much
for my personal tour of memory lane's "drug dynasty." Next time, we'll fast-forward to the
future. The pharmaco-now.
