Before I Let You Go(7)
But we aren’t just medical professionals—we are also human beings—and Annie is in a truly terrible state. She’s lying on the bed now, but she’s restless and she’s scratching compulsively around the sores and scabs on her arms and mouth. Every now and again she noisily blows her nose, or dissolves into fits of compulsive sneezing—all symptoms of her body craving the next fix. Even I can’t stop an instinctive feeling of disgust at the sight of her, and an automatic fury on behalf of the baby who’s been dragged along for the chemical ride.
I’m ashamed of that as her sister and as a doctor, but the feeling is as natural as my next breath. I see it in the staff treating her, too. I see it in the way they hesitate for just a second before they touch her, in the silent frowns and narrowed gazes, even in the way their glances flick toward the door again and again as they wait for her to stabilize. I know they want to get out of this room, to move their attention onto more worthy, less uncomfortable patients.
The professional thing to do would be to reserve our judgment. The best we can offer is to judge quietly.
Our training tells us that addiction is a disease, too; a disease with no real cure, a disease that’s difficult to treat. But human nature wants to ignore that training, and to pretend it’s some kind of moral weakness that has brought Annie to where she is now. Maybe we need to believe she’s chosen this life, or that she deserves it somehow, because the alternative is unbearable, unfathomable—even if she is completely blameless, we’re still going to be repulsed by her. And besides which, if she’s a pregnant drug addict because she’s a bad person, then she’s not like us: we’re good people. We could never find ourselves in her position. We are comforted by our sense of smug superiority. It’s a security blanket, a shield.
The IV is finally seated in Annie’s arm. I crane my neck to see what drug has been prescribed, but I can’t make out the label.
“What are you treating her with?”
“You’re Ms. Vidler’s sister?” The consultant frowns at me as he looks up from his chart, and I frown right back at him.
“I am,” I say, then I add, “I’m Dr. Alexis Vidler.”
“Well, doctor or not, I’m not sure you should be in here while we’re stabilizing her.”
“Please, Ron. Let her stay for support?” Sam intervenes, and the consultant sighs but he nods. I open my mouth to ask again about the drugs they have just added to her IV, and Sam shoots me a pointed look and presses his forefinger to his lips. I watch the clear liquid drip through toward her veins—winding its way down into her body.
Would it be nifedipine? Or labetalol? What dose have they got her on? If it’s not high enough, they are just wasting time. What if I don’t speak up and they don’t get the pressure down quickly enough and what if—
“Can you just tell me how you’re planning on treating her?” I blurt, and Sam takes my hand and very gently tugs me toward the door. I plant my feet hard against the vinyl floor and he pulls a little harder. When I resist, he gives me an exasperated look.
“But she’s my sister, Sam,” I protest fiercely.
Tonight is apparently a night for firsts. I met Sam at a physicians networking event, but I’ve never once seen him speak to a patient. I imagine that he would use the kind of tone he uses on me now—supportive, but also firm. He’s never needed to speak to me that way, and I find it both disarming and irritating.
“Exactly. So if you can’t leave them to do their work, you’ll need to wait in the hall.”
I groan in frustration and snatch my arm away from him, then walk to sit in a chair at the corner of the room. Sam follows me and sits beside me, but he doesn’t take my hand.
“Annie,” the consultant says quietly, “are you on a maintenance program?”
Annie scowls at him.
“Do I look like I’m on a maintenance program?”
The doctor’s expression doesn’t change.
“Okay. So can you tell me what your usage is like?”
“My usage?” she repeats, and she laughs bitterly.
“Annie,” I say gently, and she turns her gaze to me. I see the stain on her cheeks; she’s embarrassed to be discussing this with them, and maybe it’s worse because I’m in the room. Well, I’m not going anywhere, so she’s just going to have to get over it. I prompt her gently, “Please, talk to him. It’s really important.”
Annie swallows, and her gaze falls to the shape of her feet, hidden now by the hospital blanket. After a minute, she says unevenly, “At least half a gram a day. My last bump was about eight o’clock last night.”
“Thank you,” the doctor says, and he types into the computer then adds, “I’ll need to consult with a specialist, but I think the best option is going to be split-dosed methadone.”
“I’m not going on a fucking maintenance program,” she snaps, and I sigh and run my hand through my hair. Sam reaches across between the chairs and squeezes my knee gently. I grimace silently at him.
“Given how heavy your use is, it’s going to be a very uncomfortable stay if you don’t agree to something to prevent the withdrawal, Anne,” the consultant says, firmer now. Annie glares at him.
“That’s why it’s not going to be a long stay.”