Do You Know Who I Am?

So I was reading over at The Discovering Alcoholic about the increased rates of prescription for painkillers in Montana, and I remembered something I'd wanted to write about here.

So this weekend, I had to go to the emergency room because half my face was swollen and nasty and crusty and gross. I had pink eye, and it was a mess...not a painful mess, just an uncomfortable, ugly, unfortunate mess.

The nurse who did the intake asked me to rate my pain on a scale of 0-10. I told her it was about a 2...I was a little uncomfortable, but mostly I was concerned that my eye was festering and I'd hoped to catch the infection before my eyeball rotted out.

So she sent me back into a room, and the doctor came and poked and prodded me a bit before prescribing a dose of antibiotics. As he was walking out the door, he turned back and said, with a half smile, "Want a pain pill?"

I was appalled! HELLS NO I don't want a fucking pain pill. What about 2 on a scale of 0-10 makes you think I want to battle with the demon opiate? In the religion I'm rapidly constructing through scraps of recovery and yoga and vegetarianism, the Grand Dame Demon Of Hell is covered in ex-girlfriend hair and opium poppies...FUCK NO I don't want a pain pill.

And furthermore, how DARE he ask that, with that little shit-eating grin? Does he get kickbacks for every pill script he writes? Does he have any idea what kind of a mess he could be inciting? Say, for instance, that had been my husband in the chair...he'd OF COURSE have needed a pain pill. Desperately, he would have needed one. Granted, he would have been thinking ahead from the beginning, and he would have said "9" for his pain scale measurement...goddamn junky-thinking fool...but really, what the hell was wrong with that doctor? I'm pretty sure that my husband isn't the only person with a problem with opiates, and I bet the doctor has heard of this phenomenon called "addiction" before...