Cracked Brains

"Doctor, I am too scared to go home. I think my dad will really kill me...", the rather good-looking 17-year-old with finely chiselled facial features said to me, maintaining a flattened affect ironically.

I turned to his father who had brought his delusional son to the hospital and was now sitting quietly next to him, listening attentively to our interview.

"Ask him what he did yesterday with his 'good' friend. He just had his shot of 'pot'.....", he finally revealed. I sensed his subtle tone of triumph.

The patient unwittingly confessed his reversion to his "old passion", claiming that he had long quitted, if not for temptation by his flatmate from the teaching university just the day before.

I tried hard to hide my utmost astonishment. This is the first time anyone had ever so openly confessed about their crack-snooting acts.

Welcome to the land of Oz.

*****

A young woman with no past medical problems was brought in by her anxious and overly-concerned relatives, after a sudden seizure.

"She took 'Speed' during the Christmas party last night. She had taken it before without any problems.....", her sister and brother-in-law claimed as-a-matter-of-factly.

I informed the neurologist on duty, as I felt the need to monitor her overnight in the hospital due to the arrhythmic effects on her cardiac status and possibility of recurrent fits in view of the long half-life of amphetamine in the system.

"That was obviously caused by the pill. Her family can take care of her....", the specialist claimed, shrugging it off conveniently.

He discharged her swiftly, much to the cracking glee of the patient.

*****

While triaging a tattooed man in his thirties who presented with severe one-sided pleuritic chest pain today, I attempted to cannulate him so that we could do some good by administering fast and effective analgesia intravenously.

"You're gonna have problems finding some good veins. I am an IV user and I haven't managed to find one last weekend....", he heaved in short sentences whilst writhing in pain.

I looked up at him, trying to decipher what I just heard. "You mean IV DRUG user?" I was simply astounded by his unassuming frankness.

"Yes, I've been shooting morphine and heroin. I have them every week", he replied, resoundingly loud as thunder across the room.

"Where do you get them?" I probed further, with aroused interest.

"Oh....anywhere in New Zealand. They sell it everywhere. Cost me 50 bucks for 10mg...." he went on bragging about his possessions, brewing immensed pride on his face, probably the only achievement in his entire cracked-up life.

"I see...hmmm...so you couldn't find your veins.....hmmm....so your drugs were wasted...." I played along, at the same time tapping for any bouncy vessel I could locate on his muscular forearm.

"Yes, wasted!" he agreed wholeheartedly, then laughed to himself.

At this moment, I had failed cannulation once , after trying vigorously to wriggle the needle through his sclerosed veins, a sure end-product of his die-hard habits. I aborted any further attempt, deciding to give him an oral shot instead. "I'll get someone else to try it on you again", I told him before I left my shift.

Somehow, I didn't feel a pinch of pity for him.