It was like any other morning. That is to say, I was groggy from lack of sound sleep and my nose and sinuses were filled with an unlikely quantity of goo. Thus far, my morning routine had consisted of some combination of Prilosec, Ashmanex, Nasinex, Astelin, Antibiotic, Codine and Clarinex. The latest addition to my personal pharmaceutical cornucopia was Prednisone, an oral steroid and the last best hope of a drug induced recovery from this never-ending sinus infection.
Prednisone is a funny thing. My Ear Nose Throat doc described it to me by saying “I tell ya, if anybody ever read the warning labels on this stuff, no one would take it! But you’ll probably be fine”. ‘Fine’ might be a stretch… My first day on Prednisone I felt like my brain was sweating and I could not stop chewing on my tongue. However, I gradually grew accustomed to the anxiety producing effects and for the first time in months, my face felt modestly normal—at least from the inside. The other funny thing about Prednisone is that the prescription called for taking six of the tiny white pills each morning—all at once. Why not 1 big white pill? You got me.
On this otherwise average morning after my perfectly normal ablutions, I snatched a bottle of antibiotic off the shelf next to my bathroom mirror, swallowed a pill that could make a horse choke and quickly reached for the afore mentioned steroid shotgun chaser. I measured out six pills and looked in the bottle, thinking to myself “Man, it sure doesn’t look like there are enough pills in here to last another 2 weeks,” Well, whatever.
The next 5-6 hours were later relayed to me by several work colleagues and my mostly forgiving wife. The account that follows is accumulated from their stories…
Apparently I am "not good” in the morning. My wife, however, sees it as an ideal time to discuss the issues of the day. Anything from the Iranian Nuclear crisis to why Aunt so-and-so won’t talk to cousin blah blah blah anymore. Despite that, on mornings when I am particularly “Not GOOD”, Erica has developed a sense of when to let it ride and simply allow National Public Radio to carry the conversation on my behalf during the 9 mile trek into the city. This had all the appearances of such a morning—at least for the first 5 miles. Miles six through nine however took a slightly unusual turn. In fact, it was the unusual turning at random; combined with the not stopping unless commanded to “STOP!”; and the not staying awake at stop lights that caused Erica to wonder if something was “Less Good” about me than usual. However, it seemed a reasonable assumption at the time that I was just being an ass.
“Being an Ass” can take many forms and although I am not proud of it, I cannot deny that I am a master of all of them—a regular and rare Ass-a-morph. Once such personification of ‘assedness’ is accentuating a behavior that seems to irritate my beloved, beautiful, and currently 7 month pregnant wife—whatever that behavior might be. This is usually done as a self-defense mechanism against nagging. But it can also be done for fun.
In any case, that was the diagnosis as Mrs. Davis pierced her disdain to kiss me goodbye shortly after forcing me to re-park the car so that it could even sort of be considered within the confines of a single parking spot.
It was a short walk to the office and I headed straight to the kitchen to get my normal morning coffee. I ran into my colleague Chris and said something along the lines of “Coffee…” either to declare out loud the only cogent thought currently in my head or to seek confirmation that the brown substance in my cup was indeed coffee.
I sat down at my desk with my brown substance and promptly closed my eyes. It’s unclear how long they were closed but I estimate about half an hour at which point my head popped up as if compelled by the god of continued employment and I looked across the 6 foot gap between my seat and my nearest co-worker… who was staring at me. “Tough night?” she inquired. “Sleepy” I responded.
Something told me I needed to go to the bathroom—not the normal something, just a generalized sense that a bathroom is where I would like to be right now. However, that something lost its hold on my momentum about mid way down the vacant hallway. I don’t know how long I stood there leaning against the wall before another colleague noticed me. “Are you ok?” she inquired. “Sleepy”, I responded through pinpoint pupils. It was about this time she must have noticed the unnatural pale yellow tone my skin had adopted.
From here, my co-workers exhibited exemplary diligence in getting me seated in a chair as opposed to leaning on a hallway, calling an ambulance, calling my wife and dutifully watching over me why the EMTs arrived. The ride to the ER was uneventful and once there, I was handed off to an anxious better half and a concerned ER doctor.
“Do you know where you are?” The ER doctor who looked just a little bit too much like Stone Cold Steve Austin, asked me.
“The hospital”
“What day is it?”
“Tuesday..”
“Good—“
“2005.”
“Hmm. Ok, Cat Scan.”
According to my date sorted photo albums, in 2005 I went on a Chicago Boat tour, skied in Jackson Hole, photographed my friend Katie Todd’s band playing Summerfest, and played on an Ultimate Frisbee team call ‘GI Joes Mama’. It was an otherwise unremarkable year.
Over the next few hours I gradually regained the ability to think straight. By the third time I rolled over to ask Erica what happened before falling asleep again, I was more or less aware of what was going on and recalling more and more of Erica’s answers from minutes before. Around noon, the ER doctor walked in my room to check in on me. He said:
“Well, I’m not going to bullshit you” fine just don’t hit me. “We scanned your head and toxicology on your blood are inconclusive.” You could never take the title from Hulk Hogan—you could be the weak half of the Intercontinental tag team champions at best. “So, I’m happy to keep you here for observation or, if you’re feeling better, I can let you go. You two think about it while I go update your GP.”
“Ok,” I said. Then, turning to Erica, “Hi honey”.
“Hi, honey. The Doctor asked me about what drugs you take. I think he thinks you have a problem.”
“Well, clearly I DO have a problem”
“I told him about all the prescriptions you’re taking and that you use Ibuprofen when you play sports and the Ambien you have….”
“Ambien.”
Ambien is a hypnotic prescribed for the short-term treatment of insomnia. Ambien tablets are intended to be swallowed whole and are available in 5 mg and 10 mg strengths for oral administration. The medication works quickly – usually within 15 minutes – and has a short half-life of 2-3 hours. Ambien may cause blackouts or amnesia. Use of Ambien may impair driving skills with a resultant increased risk of accidents. When this happens, a person may not remember what has happened for several hours after taking the medicine. People who take too much Ambien may become excessively drowsy or even slip into a light coma. An overdose of Ambien may cause excessive sedation, pin-point pupils, depressed respiratory function, which may progress to coma and possibly death.
– The Internet.
The invisible light bulb above my head signaled that my powers of deduction had returned. And indeed, upon returning to the house a little later that afternoon, the theory was confirmed. Same orange bottle, same little white pills—very different result. I called my GP to let him know we figured it out. “Wow! That is a TON of Ambien,” he confirmed. I also succeeded in convincing Erica not to throw out everything in the medicine cabinet which was about as difficult as getting my GP to stop laughing. It took the rest of the day to feel normal—and once again, by normal I mean feeling like someone had recently punched me in the face and left their fist behind where my sinuses used to be. But I could think straight, so that was something. Erica was successful in dissuading me from driving to my Ultimate Frisbee game that evening despite my improved condition. So instead I accompanied her to the farmer’s market where a gentleman selling fresh farm salsa remarked: “Hey did they let you out just to come here and try this Salsa?”
“Huh?” I grunted dully before realizing I still had my hospital bracelet on plus the two band-aids covering the holes poked in me by the fine folks at Northwestern Hospital.
I was a little anxious about walking into the office the next morning. I sent an email to the whole firm before going to bed explaining what had happened and admitting that I had no memory of anything subsequent to leaving the house that morning. One thing was immediately evident when I entered the trading floor—the whole debacle had really freaked people out. It was nice, albeit mildly embarrassing to receive a few hugs and a fist pump in congratulations for managing not to kill myself.
So what can I say other than not all orange bottles from the pharmacy are created equal. Keep your medicine cabinet organized. Oh, and if you have trouble sleeping, 1 Ambien will do the trick.
Sweet dreams.
