Dear Doctor,
My husband and I were in the city yesterday, and when we were there, I picked up a magazine that showcases ads and articles featuring the best the city has to offer. I saw an ad for a Neurology Clinic; the description made me wonder if you were a part of it. I Googled it, and sure enough, there you were—your name was featured prominently, followed by a list of credentials and accomplishments.
I looked at that list and thought that there should be another one—a list of the people who overdosed on the drugs you prescribed, and a list of the people who survived those drugs but lost almost everything else. Had there been such a list, my name would be on it. And my name would mean nothing to you. You wouldn’t remember me. But I remember you.
I remember the day we met. Unlike any other doctor, you promised me a cure from pain. You gave me fentanyl within a half hour of meeting me—fentanyl, a drug which is used mostly for terminal cancer patients. A drug which is 100 times more potent than morphine and responsible for more overdoses than heroin. When I asked you at my next appointment why I was still in pain even while on fentanyl, your answer was to increase my dosage. Again and again, I told you I wanted to see if there was anything else that could help me. Again and again, you increased my dosage.
Until the day I called to schedule my next appointment and your nurse informed me that you would no longer be taking my calls. Desperate, scared, and beginning to withdraw, I did what any other addict would do—I found another doctor. He told me he would continue with “the fentanyl plan,” because he trusted you and your reputation as a neurologist. And he did, for two more years, until I decided to wean myself off of it. I don’t need to tell you how horrible those weeks of withdrawal were; I’m sure I’m not the first patient of yours who went through it. But I made it through and had been drug-free for a few months when I woke up with a migraine so intense that I literally couldn’t see through the pain. By the time I got to my doctor’s office, I couldn’t walk and was vomiting every ten minutes like clockwork. My doctor admitted me to the hospital and ordered a battery of tests. Tests you never bothered with—you never even had me get a simple CT scan.
Though the pain was beyond any I’d ever experienced, I was determined not to take any narcotics. So my doctor gave me drugs only to prevent infection and treat the nausea. On my fourth day in the hospital, he ordered a spinal tap. When the nurses brought me back from the spinal tap, my doctor came in and said that the on-call neurologist would be in soon to talk to me. I closed my eyes and waited. And when I opened them, there you were. It had been over two years since I’d seen you, and in that time, you had forgotten me. You got my name wrong. You also promised me that you’d make the pain stop, just like you had before. You spoke to a nurse, who returned with some vials of medication. I asked you what it was, and you said, “Fentanyl.” I wasn’t capable in that moment of explaining to you that I didn’t want it. So the nurse injected it into my IV line. You said, “Give it a few minutes to work” and left the room. As the fentanyl began to course through my veins, the last hopes I had for a life without drugs drained away. In that moment, I completely surrendered. I let the drugs take me under and let myself go. I didn’t notice until weeks later that you were the one who signed my discharge papers and wrote on them the reason for my hospital stay: Intractable migraine and drug dependency.
It took me seven more years to get clean. But I did. And in April, I will have been clean for seven years. Would you care? No. Would you care if I told you that your brief hospital visit not only took away my hope but made me believe that I would always need drugs? No. Would you care that what you wrote on my discharge papers is a permanent part of my medical records—that I’m labeled a drug addict before any doctor even sees me? No. You won’t even read this—I’m no one to you. But if you did, this is what I would want you to know:
The pain you caused me by introducing me to fentanyl was far worse than the physical pain I was in. I made my choices—my years of addiction were not your fault. But your choice was the catalyst for mine. And I know from the research I’ve done that you’re still making that choice. You’re still treating people like lab rats, not human beings. You’re still handing out painkillers like candy and letting the chips fall where they may.
You introduced me to fentanyl. I wish I could introduce you to my pain manager, the Great Physician. I wish that you would then introduce Him to the people who come to you, desperate for a cure you simply do not have. And I wish you could tell them what I’ve learned: to stop begging for you or any other doctor to kill their pain and instead start begging for Jesus. For His nearness in every moment of pain. Sometimes He takes the pain away; more often, He doesn’t. When He doesn’t, He holds you close, transforming the moments of your greatest pain into the moments of your greatest comfort, learning, and healing. There is no drug that is a substitute for that.
I pray someday you find Him. If you do, we’ll meet again. Not as doctor and patient, but as daughters of the King.
Sincerely,
A former patient.
A Measured Life
– Renee Adele Phillips
“I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.”
– T.S. Eliot, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”
In darkness and pain, I’d go under
willingly, willfully, wanting oblivion.
I think now about those years,
years when I measured out my life with
pill bottles and Post-It notes,
with intentions I never met on the road I paved to hell.
What a waste, land of fits and starts and begging
“Take this cup from me.”
You didn’t. You never took away my pain
though You could have. Every word I write
is scribbled on a scroll of pain, my life itself lived
in the constant shadow of it.
I cannot kill it or numb it or run from it
but this I know:
I can grasp at straws or reach for You, God,
and drink from the cup You hold out for me.
With every sip, I draw closer to You,
held and healed in a way I never knew I always needed.
And still—the cup fills
with blessings so abundant,
they overflow even the saucer.
I don’t know why or how or if or when but I know
surely: goodness and mercy will follow me
all the days of my life, measured now, one by one,
with saucers of grace.
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Comments 12
Hello Renee, I read your post and I start to understand the battle you fought to be free of drugs, and that you were only able to do it with God’s help and the rehab that He guided you to.
Pain killers have no absolutely effect on me, they don’t kill any of my pains and they don’t make me stoned, so I have no idea of the battle you have had, but I can really relate to what the pain killers did to you because of my bad experience with Booz (enough detail) and it was a loving wife and my God that set me straight. It was like the liquor hid all of life’s problems for a while, I think I just hid in an liquor fog not really wanting to face life. So I really appreciate how you have recovered!
These pill pushers that call themselves doctors I really can’t think of words bad to describe them, they sure are not living up to the oath they took as doctors to heal the sick, they just making people into junkies.
I know how heard it is to get through pain, but sometimes I think it is just better to suck it up when you can than to deal with a pill pusher.
It’s getting late, Renee keep up the good work you are doing great, looking forward to your next post!
Love, Grover
Grover–Whether it’s alcohol or drugs, I think we’re all looking for something to kill pain, be it physical, mental, spiritual, or emotional. Some of us think we find it in substances but like you said, it’s really just a fog that masks pain. And when it lifts, the pain comes back worse. It’s so hard to deal with it at its core, but until we do, it comes back. I agree with you 100% that it’s better to push through pain if at all possible rather than trying to mask it. I so appreciate your willingness to share yourself and your story, Grover. I think transparency and sharing our stories are vital to healing in a community of people who understand and accept each other without judgment. Thank you so much for contributing to that. Love to you tonight.
This is heartbreaking! How do these doctors live with themselves? Praise God that He gave you the courage to try again to be free of the drug, and that He got you free through much perseverance.
Heather–this is such a huge part of the opioid crisis–doctors who recklessly prescribe drugs, get their patients hooked, and then the patients turn to street drugs when their supply is cut off. I wish more people knew this; I wish more people’s hearts would break as yours did, for the pain of those who are suffering. And yes–praise God that I’m free. Thank you for reading my words.
It’s a miracle that you are alive today. Praise God for watching over you and protecting for those years. Your living story of suffering then and your recovery now has helped and inspired others. I love you for that!
It’s a miracle that you stayed. And because you did, God used you in more powerful ways than I will ever know. I know He used you to save my life. He uses you every day in countless ways. Thank you for that and for a love that showed me redemption was possible. I love you.
Good morning Sparrow. Man oh man, what Hell you have been through, pardon my choice of words, To experience this, I have no concept. As a young boy, growing int9 the teenage years, we heard about “marijuana cigarettes, we did not even call it “weed”, never dabbled in it, thank goodness, alcohol was waiting for me. Thank the lord I got over that, although “excessive ness”hounded me, for over 20 years. But, for you, Sparrow, you Trusted this physician, and I guess the “magic pill”, so to speak in his repertoire, was, Fetanyl, a drug used for pain in Cancer patients. To think this physician, is still practicing, blows my mind. But, that’s the way it is. But, thank God, with Monty’s help, you got on a different “track”, the long pain wracked “road to normalcy, recovery. I have said this a few time#, Sparrow, you are a very strong person. Also, your ultimate faith in our Lord Jesus Christ. He, The Lord, is our Great Healer. He is so close, too often we don’t even ,ok on his direction. I Will again, take my Mother’s words, when we have troubles, no matte4 how big or Small, “take it to the Lord in Prayer. “What a Friend We Have in Jesus”, “Jesus Loves Me”, 2 childhood, say it all to me. Not sure if the Beatles meant, “The Long and Winding Road”, meant leading to Our Lord, My inte4lretation, It does. Sparrow, “stay the course”, You are a Winner. Thank you this blog, I could go on and on, but will close, “Keep On Blogging”.❤️TexGen
TexGen–our Wi-Fi has been coming and going all day; I’m sorry I didn’t respond to you sooner. Thank you for your words. Yes, the doctor is still practicing and pushing those “magic” drugs. As you said, thank God I survived it and with Monty’s help got into recovery. Also as you said, it’s a long and winding road–that song actually is so apropos, whether the Beatles meant it that way or not. Thank you for reminding me of it. Those basic lessons your mother taught you are all we really need to know, aren’t they? Pray; lean on Jesus; know He loves you and share that love with others. So beautiful in their simplicity. Thank you for your thoughts and your encouragement, dear friend. I know you mean every word. As do I–thank you.
Strip away the medical degree and he is nothing but an ordinary drug pusher who should be in jail. I am so angry at him for the suffering he caused you and countless others.
Oh, Mary–I couldn’t agree with you more. I saw a story this morning about a drug dealer who had been arrested and charged with manslaughter because he sold fentanyl to two people who then overdosed. The only difference between that dealer and the doctor is, as you said, the degree. I think what makes me the saddest is that it’s still happening to her other patients. And so many others. It’s a difficult thing to forgive. Thank you for reading my words and taking the time to respond. I so appreciate it.
The pronoun you used for the doctor shocked me. Although I don’t normally think in terms of the usual gender stereotypes, the arrogance of this doctor’s approach led me to assume that the physician was male. Although it shouldn’t matter, the fact that this was a woman angers me even more.
I agree with you–it shouldn’t matter, but somehow it makes it worse. I waited so long to get in with her–I thought a female neurologist might better understand. How wrong was I?! She was by far the most arrogant doctor I’ve ever met, and I’ve known so, so many. It used to bother me so much that she wore heavy perfume–anyone familiar with migraines knows that any scent can trigger a migraine. That day in the hospital when I was so sick, I smelled her before I saw her. The perfume was completely inappropriate for a hospital and especially for a migraine patient. Anyway, it helps to know that I’m not the only one who sees her recklessness as criminal. Thank you for that, Mary–for your support.