Don’t Sell Your Pain Meds

I was a pretty sassy child. I am sure this comes as a shock to no one. And when I was young, about 5 years old as a matter of fact, I approached my father, looked him dead in his eyes and said, “Dad, I have a proposition for you.” My dad, undoubtedly, got a big kick out of it. I am not sure what I was proposing to him, but I am sure it had something to do with exchanging money for something – perhaps good behavior or a promise to go to bed on time. Or maybe I promised to keep my mouth shut for 5 minutes for a dollar. This exchange of money for goods and services has never been lost on me. In grade school it was not uncommon for me to garner goods from my mom’s work (she worked, at that time, for a rep for Wet ‘N Wild makeup) and resell it to kids at school. I sold everything from eye shadow and lip liner to the girls to temporary tattoos to the boys. I was a sassy – and entrepreneurial - child.

I have carried these skills with me into adulthood. Selling everything from CDs and DVDs to high profile concert tickets on eBay, for example. My family soon gave me a new nickname – Scamy - a combination of “Amy” and “scam.” Not that I was scamming anyone, necessarily, but because I knew how to… work the system.

About a month after my surgery and I was feeling pretty good. The pain pills were really helping and I was able to move around a little easier - I was even getting out of the house more. After going to a Coldplay concert, I decided it was entirely possible for me to head out to the bar to say good bye to a co-worker who was leaving the company. For the most part, this was one of my first really social events. I was actually going out... to see a slew of my co-workers and friends... at a bar. This was a big step.

My sister was going to be there – my security blanket - and she was going to make sure I didn’t freak out and end up crying in a corner. This may be one of the only reasons why my mom was more than happy to drive me there. Yes, my mother drove me to the bar. Yes, it is odd when your mother drives you to the bar, in case you were wondering. I invited her in, but she declined. My mother is too classy for dive bars. Before I stepped out of the comforts of my mother’s presence and into a smokey pub my mother asked if I would be okay. “Yes, mom, I’ll be fine. I brought a pain pill just in case something starts hurting.” And then she said it. The line I would repeat a dozen times before my mom would be picking me up from the bar (which is equally as odd – especially when you are sober and fully aware that your mother is picking you up from a bar). She said, in all seriousness, “Amy, don’t sell your pain pills.”

I laughed. I laughed because I needed those pills and I had a limited supply. I laughed because I knew I wasn’t going to be able to get refills forever on those things. I laughed because I knew I could take the money and pay my medical bills – which were not as astronomical as some may think, thanks in large part to my amazing medical insurance from work. I laughed because I knew, without a doubt in my mind, that someone in that bar would surely buy those pills if I offered them. And I laughed because, if strapped enough, I would have considered selling them - and she knew it. I laughed and then assured my mother that, as tempting as it was, Scamy would not sell her pain pills.

So I went into the bar and I didn't freak out, I didn't end up in the corner crying. It was weird being back in a smokey bar and not smoking or drinking, but I was okay and I was glad to see so many familiar faces. Things were starting to look up - way up - for me and this would only be the beginning of getting back to some semblance of a normal life. And while I didn't need that pain pill I brought with me, I didn't sell it either - just like my mom told me not to.

(June 4, 2009)