Sep 30
…and a young man enters.
Part II of “We open on a room…”
“25YOM, septicaemia, will need a stretcher”,
25 year old males rarely find themselves so acutely ill that they can’t walk.
It happens, granted, but it’s rare.
We’re growling, hackles sky ward, at the direction from whoever’s booked this call that he’ll “need a stretcher”.
I have five ways of moving prone people: two stretchers, a trolley, a canvas and a vacuum mattress, not to mention a bewildering series of bondage-esque lifting and moving harnesses, sheets, handles and cushions.
He’ll need a stretcher to get out of the house will he?
Jolly dee.
Which one would you recommend?
At the front door of a well kept Georgian town house, we’re met by a woman in her sixties, slate grey hair brushed time and again out of her eyes, no make up this morning, one earring swings at a lopsided angle, shoved in any old way.
“He’s through there.”
Unshaved and apparently wearing the clothes he slept in, the young man sways across the floor towards us. His gait so languid and deviant his hips seem to climb to his shoulders with each spastic, shuffling stride. I wouldn’t startle to hear him mumble about my braaaains
Instead he has his own lines.
“Ohhhh….fffffuck…..fuckfuckfuckfuck.”
Whatever’s going on, he certainly looks uncomfortable, but the swearing seems to be for our benefit. Like a kid with a new toy, insistently shaking it in the face of a visitor to the house.
His mother sighs as he hirples past us through the front door, glancing at my partner to see if we’re impressed by his spectacle.
He’s clearly not interested in talking, just as long as we all see how terribly ill he is.
His mum, my partner and I follow him down the house steps to the back of the vehicle, where he loiters like a fart in a lift.
My frustrations at his total absence of manners aside, I’m pleased to see that he’s alert and pink, breathing and walking with ease (“needs a stretcher” my ass).
In the grossly septic patient I’d be concerned about shock or at least dehydration, with a casual eye for rocketing temperatures that send people a wee bit loopy.
He has none of these.
In fact, other than being a little shabby and gasping like a steam kettle at climax whenever he walks, he doesn’t appear all that unwell.
I get him settled in a seat.
“So what’s the problem, Mark?”
He stands upright, pulls down his trousers and underwear.
“It’s this, mate.”
So it is, by the way.
His scrotum and thighs are howling red, an abcess the size of my fist snuggles at the top of one of his legs, the skin strained and tight. Pus and plasma seep from the edges; it is, in short, everything you hope your tackle will never be.
“How long’s it been like that, then?”
He fills his lungs and launches into his story, clearly a tale he’s told before and, like the stories of fights told in the pub the next night. The highs and lows are escalated, the near misses, punishing defeats and shining victories are more dramatic and exuberant than Bollywood, without the choreography.
Regardless of the tides of his past, his opening line catches me and won’t let go, the rest of his chat fades into soft focus.
“I started shooting up 13 years ago…”
I recycle the maths in my head over and over, but the answer always comes out the same.
He first took smack when he was twelve.
Twelve.
And I may be speaking out of turn, I may be presumptuous, I may be coming to conclusions that have no foundation.
But it showed.
It wasn’t his glowingly visibly clavicle or sunken ribs or concave cheeks.
It wasn’t his matte eyes or sulking skin or open sores
It wasn’t the shadows in the cleft of his elbows or the screaming livid pink foliage that climbed up his wrist (“I got a hit that was mixed with rosin, it melted fine but solidified in my veins, I had to cut the lumps out with a Stanley knife”).
It showed in his personality, which had hung at twelve years old.
He was pubescent, brash and rude, evident in his inflated accounts of heroic injustices.
Between the two of us, his mother and I had to guide his conversation as with a teenager.
It was clear that his mother was stupid and understood nothing of his life, that I was an idiot meddling in issues of which I had no comprehension.
He idly made phone calls in the middle of my asking him questions, his mother twisting him back into an appropriate social response - “Mark, the gentleman was asking you something…can you listen to him, please?”
Where he differed from an adolescent was in his knowledge of the world. He was armed with opinions, facts, figures and concepts; current affairs, politics and social challenges. He just lacked the maturity to apply them; like giving a sugar-rushing eight year old a Kalashnikov in a party bag, lethal, excited and totally misguided.
The addiction therapy services in the UK were “completely fucking stupid” and would be better supplying their patients with street heroin “Because we know what’s good and what’s not”.
Methadone was a government conspiracy to keep “people like me” down.
He would “fucking kill” his mother if she went into his room while he was at hospital because he “had stuff that she had no business dealing with”.
By the end of the journey his Mum and I were sharing glances, agreeing with each other without words, conspiring against him to manage his conduct and treatment.
It was immediately clear that my skills with Mark paled in the shadow of her’s. She obviously had years of ambulance rides, discussions with doctors and patient management of his behaviour.
Her love as a parent stretched her tolerance far beyond the point at which mere mortals would have stepped aside and let her son fall.
Astonishing and far beyond my comprehension…but it certainly gave me some perspective as regards my own problems.
September 30th, 2008 at 9:06 pm
[…] a story to post, it’s written and ripe, ready to go, anonymous and polished (though I say so […]
September 30th, 2008 at 9:15 pm
this reminds me of my family - my parents keep “putting up” with my sister - i wonder if the next generation of parents will be so stoic?
September 30th, 2008 at 9:22 pm
We knew it was coming. I didn’t think it would be like that. Yes, you are right. Give me a tantrumming two year old any day.
September 30th, 2008 at 10:02 pm
The trouble is, it’s not a choice. You get the tantrumming 2yo and then the tantrumming 20yo as well. Just as you’re getting older and more tired.
And I had to giggle when I found out what his problem was. An old friend had a boil down there once and you described the walk EXACTLY!
October 1st, 2008 at 1:50 am
Fuck… ing… hell.
I can’t hate the kid. I want to, but I can’t. I mean, how would I act towards people if one stupid mistake had put me in that situation at that age? Getting yourself off smack must take a shitload of willpower and self-control, and how much of either did any of us have at that age? How much did he get time to develop before addiction started to fuck with his head? There’s also the small matter of the agonising pain he was presumably in when you spoke to him.
October 1st, 2008 at 6:42 am
God, I’m grateful that my nephews and nieces, of the same age as this young man, did not go down the road he did. Superbly written Kal.
October 1st, 2008 at 9:58 am
You’re right, wet pants are a triviality compared to that. Well written again!
October 1st, 2008 at 10:01 am
The injustice, the system has let him down
of course. Its anybodies fault but his own!
Help is available if he wants to use it. A
Life style choice once again.
This young man needs a lead injection.
Am I wrong?
October 1st, 2008 at 10:06 am
Hey Kal,
Is MERSA running amok among the heroin users on your side of the pond?
RD
October 1st, 2008 at 11:21 am
“The injustice, the system has let him down
of course. Its anybodies fault but his own!
Help is available if he wants to use it. A
Life style choice once again.
This young man needs a lead injection.
Am I wrong?”
Yes.
Read Kal’s post again. The guy was TWELVE when he started using.
The system is failing to protect our children and people like Kal are cleaning up the shit.
October 1st, 2008 at 12:42 pm
This story fills me with horrible fear, imagining my little ones ending up like that. I’m sure his mum never intended this situation and I can’t help wondering how I’m any different to her.
October 1st, 2008 at 2:19 pm
Makes the stuff I got into trouble about as a teenager pale into insignificance……………. makes me think about how tolerant my family would have been if I’d got into trouble such as this, I can’t imagaine anything but support, I guess thats just what comes naturally to (most) parents.
October 1st, 2008 at 4:45 pm
So, so sad!
Im think there needs to be a radical change in education of kids. I had a colleague who used to work for Customs and run a youth group in the evenings. He used to tell the kids horrendous stories of drug mules and the risks they took. He used to end with “would you really want to inhale or inject stuff thats spent 12 hours up someone’s arse?!”
I tell you, I’m convinced that put a few potential junkies off!
October 1st, 2008 at 6:32 pm
It makes me realise that I *have* to be the one in control now, when they’re little, for them to have a chance of them avoiding this sort of life. Bring on the tantrums in Tesco!!
October 1st, 2008 at 8:25 pm
That should be a shocking post, but instead, I just feel sad that this guy’s case is so far from isolated.
Outside of the ethics etc of the situation, your writing really is good - and I envy your ability to view situations and present them so thoughtfully!
October 2nd, 2008 at 1:09 am
Help, I need my faith in human nature restoring…
October 2nd, 2008 at 7:47 am
Just playing devil’s advocate with my last post. Of course it is sad that he started so early and many things are unknown about the family circumstances help is available and proffesionals like Kal will allways do their best to help.
I am so glad that my children have not been drawn into using drugs.
This is another excellent post by Kal
October 2nd, 2008 at 12:24 pm
Food for thought:
Remember, from the comments, my drunk brother who passed out and susequently soiled both himself and the living room carpet? My parents tolerated a couple more years of that and worse. They kicked him out essentially the day he became (chronologically anyway) an adult. The years following saw multiple forms of substance abuse, multiple suicide attempts, homelessness, etc. What’s worse? Where would you rather see your child? How long do you put up with these behaviors? If you decide you’ll no longer deal with it, what do you do instead and can you deal with the consequences?
October 3rd, 2008 at 12:41 pm
Woah. My son is nearly 11. My buoyant, bouncy, blond golden-labrador-crossed-with-Zebedee, Dr-Who-obsessed son. I cannot imagine him making a decision in a year’s time that would so totally change his life. He can barely decide what socks to wear. I feel very cold all of a sudden.