#Pain Management Without Opioids

[natandacat]

That rheumatologist was likely right that brain fog is inflammation in the brain... theres 0 pain but as soon as i take an nsaid it gets better. Too bad i cant really take nsaids!

[sweet-hedonist]

Impulsivity

Modern Viktor x Fem! Reader

Your chronic pain has you at the end of your rope as you hopelessly search for something to relieve your pain. Help comes from the most unexpected of places: a walgreens at 9:45 pm.

Reader is mentioned to be an art/theater kid and is also disabled like Viktor and suffers from chronic pain. No use of y/n. Also not proofread we die like redacted

Word count: 4.6K

High key inspired by @meownotgood and @gaybybirth because reading their writing made me want to write again. This is the most self-indulgent thing I've ever written and I'm terrified to post it. But I'm being brave! likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated! I may make a part 2 depending on how this does. I hope you enjoy!

Pain makes it incredibly hard to think. Even though you're used to it and it's something you feel every day of your life, the burden is still quite heavy. But there is no pity for Atlas, and his shoulders will ache for the rest of time as he holds up the sky without the relief of Tylenol.

So now, you're standing in a Walgreens at 9:42 pm in the pain management aisle, shifting your weight from foot to foot to relieve the pain radiating from your hips to your ankles, trying to pick a topical pain relief gel that will actually work. You've tried most of them here; Bengay, Aspercreme, Biofreeze, Icy Hot, and nothing. Sure, they work for a few weeks but your fucking mutated joke of a body adapts and grows accustomed to whatever you use. The brace you wear on your left knee is itchy and pokes into you through your fleece-lined tights and it's not helping matters.

Giving up on reading the box of Voltaren you're holding, you crouch down to put it back and pick up something else. Your pain-addled brain is piss-poor at making decisions it seems, as the moment you bend, your knee cracks in such a way that a painful heat spreads through your entire body. It was loud too, you know it was. Eyes are staring at you, burning a hole in your head as you wince and grit your teeth against the waves of pain hell-bent on knocking you down.

You feel the urge to collapse, just sit on the floor, and read the labels and boxes there without having to stand, despite how utterly ridiculous you'd look.

"Are you alright?" Your right knee hits the floor as you shift into a kneeling position to look up at the person speaking to you. A long tweed overcoat, a thick red scarf, a cane, nice Oxford shoes, pale skin, worried amber eyes, and tousled brown hair meet your gaze. A man, a very beautiful man is standing a mere three feet from you, eyebrows pinched in concern. You blink a few times, willing yourself to remember how to act like a normal person and not a gobsmacked fool.

"Oh, yeah I uh…" You swallow and gesture wildly to the wall of products, and then visibly deflate "…no there's no way to make a joke out of this. " A laugh slips out, pitiful. You look back up at the man and the corners of his mouth are quirked up at the sides. Thank god, maybe he finds your misfortune endearing.

"They do tend to keep the best products just out of reach, don't they? Nothing at eye level ever seems to be worth your time. Just another cruel joke the health industry plays on the less abled." He looks between the wall of lotions and pills and you, his smile widening.

You smile too, less self-deprecative now and more understanding, "Ah, a fellow health industry hater, amazing. Damn straight, they bleed us dry and expect us to thank them. Greedy schmucks." With one hand on the metal shelf and the strength of your good (better?) knee, you manage to pull yourself into an upright position, even with every nerve in your body screaming at you and your left hip wanting to jump ship, leaving you alone in this sea of agony.

"Just trying to find something that doesn't stop working after a few weeks and also not develop an opioid addiction at the same time." Ah, maybe you could make a few cute jokes that this cuter man will appreciate.

"As one does." He leans both hands on his cane and nods his head conspiratorially. You giggle, you can't help it. Maybe it's the pain-induced delirium or maybe it's because you find the man in front of you incredibly attractive. But who's to say?

"Might I make a recommendation?" His accent is lilting and thick and it feels like every word out of his mouth is wrapped in a velvetine cloth. That metaphor makes no sense, your brain thinks. Shut up, chimes your heart.

"Please. I was about to start considering just chopping off my leg and being done with it." He laughs out loud at that.

"Ah, we've all been there." His attention is pulled back to the shelves and his fingers twitch as he looks for something. He's focused, insanely so, and it makes you feel important, seen. This random stranger, looking for something that will help you with such fervor.

God, it's been a while.

He bends at the waist to grab something off of the second shelf from the bottom and you definitely don't fixate on the way his long fingers curl around a box.

"This is Arnicare. The main ingredient was only legalized here a mere decade ago, it's never failed me thus far." He hands it over to you with a smile. You take it, a little awestruck and make a sincere effort to not freak out over the fact that your fingers brush his own. They're warm, good god.

"Thank you. This is invaluable insider information." You hold the box to your chest in gratitude.

"Of course. Tiger Balm is my favorite but they don't typically sell it in-store due to popular demand. I usually, unfortunately, turn to Amazon to buy it when it's in stock." he continues, putting one hand in his pocket and leaning onto his cane. You nod, making mental notes as you go.

"You are saving my life and my sanity right now. Truly." You pause, and then, with bravery that you didn't know you had-

"I'm (name)." You stick out your right hand, so that way if he chooses to take it, it won't be with the hand using his cane. He stalls for a moment and you fear you've made a horrible fool of yourself, but then he chuckles and shakes your hand gently. You can't get over how warm his hand is, skin soft save for the callouses on his palm and fingertips.

"Viktor. It is nice to meet you." His eyes crinkle as the gentle smile he wears widens.

There's a charged beat where your hands linger a moment longer than what is expected and you laugh it off before letting go. "Sorry, I uh…have been running on far less than the recommended amount of sleep and have been eating meals that do not classify as meals."

"I don't think I have ever gotten the recommended hours of sleep a day in my life."

Your eyebrows shoot up, "Really?"

"Really. I think my blood is 60% espresso at this point. Such is the life of academia." He shrugs as if to say, what can you do?

You look down at the product in your hands, and then back up to him, mind racing in a thousand different directions that all leave you terrified but at the same decision.

"You know, there's a really nice late-night coffee shop in this same shopping complex. Their coffee is the only coffee I confidently drink after 4 pm. Which, is arguably not healthy but, what can you do?" You blurt out, rather impulsively. He's a little shocked, it's clear on his face, but there is still a smile there.

"Are you asking me if I'd like to accompany you to grab coffee at…9:45 pm?" He tilts his head quizzically after checking his watch.

You nod a few times, "Absolutely I am. And maybe it's the fact that my hip hurts so bad and it's prohibiting me from feeling fear but…yeah. Wanna get coffee at 9:45 pm?" He's staring at you incredulously, but it's sweet and amused.

He laughs again, and it's a low, rumbling sound, "I was already planning on getting some kind of caffeine. Sure. I would love to." He's looking at you so intensely, almost like he's studying you. Self-consciousness washes over you suddenly as you realize you've sort of completely derailed whatever he'd been doing.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt your shopping or your night…"

He shakes his head as if it were impossible to interrupt, "Interrupt my night? My night full of no plans other than grading papers until my eyes bleed? Alone and without the company of a pretty girl? Ah yes, how dare you come between me and those plans." his tone is playful, sarcastic and the nervousness fades from you as quickly as it came. Your eyes narrow.

"Oh, so he thinks I'm pretty?" You grab your purse from off the ground and start to move backward toward the register, and he follows, adjusting his cane and bag sheepishly.

"He does."

"Good because she thinks he's pretty too." You venture quickly before your brain can catch up with your mouth. It only takes a second for him to catch up with you, strolling through the aisles of a near-desolate Walgreens.

"Lucky him."

The cashier at the counter looks as though they'll fall asleep as they bag your items: the Arnicare and a bottle of dark green nail polish. "I swear I'm not typically this impulsive." You call over your shoulder as the cashier hands you the receipt and you stuff your things into your purse. Viktor walks up and puts his items on the counter - allergy medication and a pack of multicolored pens, presumably for grading - and turns to you while fishing out his wallet.

"Somehow, I highly doubt that." He pauses, thinking over his next words, "Not that being impulsive is a bad thing. I could stand to be more impulsive." It's an apology where there doesn't need to be one.

You shrug, "No offense taken, because you're right. I was...just trying to save face."

"Why?"

"Well…" Why were you trying to save face? "I feel, maybe a professor wouldn't be so inclined to hang out with someone so uninhibited? Some people call me childish." As he takes the small bag from the cashier, you find his eyes again, and they are full of mirth.

"Firstly, not a professor. I'm a PhD student at the University not far from here. We, as TA's, usually get saddled with grading assignments and papers." He walks forward with you, letting you walk through the automated doors first, probably so you can lead the way to the coffee shop.

"Secondly, I disagree. Impulsivity does not automatically equate to childishness. Some people say impulsive, I say driven, or passionate. Spontaneity is life." You stare at him unabashedly as you walk. This man, Viktor, waxing poetic about the benefits of impulsivity on your behalf. He's smart, obviously, but not in a haughty I'm Better Than You way. It's refreshing. And while you may not be a traditional academic, you understand to some level.

The cold bites at your skin, and you regret your decision to forgo a jacket, so you shiver when you tell him, "You're incredibly good at making me feel better about myself. I bet your students love you." He laughs at that - you're noticing that you seem to be quite good at making him laugh - and shakes his head disapprovingly

Then, guilty, "Not when I'm assigning pop quizzes after returning from winter break and calling them out for using AI."

"Ok the AI thing I completely understand, but assigning a pop quiz after a break is just cold on so many levels." College wasn't that cruel to you, but there had been many a quiz that you bombed simply because you hadn't been prepared for them. One or two that immediately followed a break.

The coffee shop comes up quickly and you move to open the door, but he's faster, shifting his bag to his elbow and grabbing the door for you as he quips, "Ah, so I see you would've been one of the students who failed that quiz." He's teasing you, and it's working.

"I can neither confirm nor deny. Although don't look at my freshman year grades. They force the art kids to take two semesters of stats and…it was just a fucking torpedo into my GPA."

"Fair enough." His laugh is quickly starting to become one of your favorite sounds.

The warmth of the dimly lit shop is nice, especially after just being out in the cold. It seeps into your bones and mercifully leeches out some of the pain in your hip.

The shop is small, quaint, and its setup reminds you of a library. Secluded booths and tables with individual lamps on them, bookshelves lining the walls, and everything made out of dark wood. Viktor looks around in awe for a moment, then, "How have I never stumbled onto this place before?"

You mentally pat yourself on the back. It had been a few years ago that you'd found this place. After a bit of an insane night out cut short by a friend getting you kicked out of the bar, you frantically searched for food places open late. This place immediately popped up leading you and your friends to feast on pastries and sandwiches washed down by the most delicious coffee you'd ever had.

"I was just lucky. When you're drunk and hungry, you can find anything." You walk towards the back of the shop, picking out a booth in the corner, "Is this ok?"

Viktor nods, hanging his cane off the table and shrugging out of his jacket. There is a moment where you feel you might keel over right there, but it is through sheer power of will that you remain standing, because holy hell this man is attractive. He's wearing a three-quarter sleeve black turtleneck that clings to his body in a way that's not loose, nor is it skin-tight. You can see the barest hint of something underneath, perhaps a back brace to help with stability. Sitting down in the booth, you try to avert your eyes to no avail, as they roam over the dark brown slacks sitting high on his waist. It's a miracle you're not drooling. Staring down at the red, long sleeve sweater you'd paired with a deep brown skirt, you can't help but think we match.

He sits down slowly, and you recognize the strategy to minimize pain, then folds his hands in front of him. "So, freshman year statistics? I believe you called it a 'fucking torpedo'?"

"Of course you picked up on that."

"Well, you were rather emphatic about it." The smugness is radiating off of him in waves and it stokes the fire in your gut.

Huffing, "Not everyone can be a whiz at math and science. I mean, what are you getting your PhD in?"

It looks like he's biting back a shit eating grin, "Biomedical engineering."

"Oh fuck off."

He releases the hold over the grin he was hiding and you're blinded by it. It absolutely makes sense, in retrospect. His analytical gaze, as if taking things apart in his mind and putting them back together, even just the way he speaks, so sure and confident. Your mouth opens to say something but a waitress decides that moment is a prime opportunity to get your drink orders.

Viktor orders a Turkish coffee and you order a French vanilla iced latte with cinnamon. As the waitress leaves, he wrinkles his nose.

"You call that coffee? It is just sugar. And iced? It's freezing out."

"Oh so first you critique my grade in stats, and now you attack my coffee order? You hate me and want me dead." Your arms fold in front of your chest as you stare at him in mock challenge. His hands shift to rest on his biceps, fingers spreading over the evidently lean muscle there and you fight to keep your breathing steady.

"I retract my statement, I bare you no ill will."

"Yeah you better, me and my sugar coffee will beat the shit out of your boiled coffee grounds." Now it's his turn to raise his eyebrows.

"You mock my drink, a traditional drink from my home country? Now you hate me and want me dead."

A warmth pours over your cheeks and you feel it heat the tips of your ears, all the way down to your shoulders. Something flashes in his gaze that tells you he definitely noticed.

"Touche." It's only a minute more before the waitress returns with your orders, said minute filled with meaningful glances and sitting adjustments on your part, your hip still aches slightly, but it's easier to ignore at this point.

You're mid sip when he fixes you with a stare, hands wrapped around his own drink, and asks, "So I can rule out anything to do with statistics, but what do you do, miss (name)? I believe you referred to yourself as an 'art kid'?"

Ah, the tricky part of explaining what you do to an academic. Not to say you weren't an academic yourself, just…a very different flavor of it.

"Yeah. In college I dual majored in Psychology and Theatre Arts. So I feel like I play both sides of the field, despite how many of the other scientists refuse to recognize psychology as a science." You spit the word as if it were a dagger, still holding a vendetta against your 11th-grade physics teacher who called it a pseudo-science.

"But my real love is Theatre. Whether it be Musicals or Shakespeare, it's my passion. I dialect coach on the side to make extra money, but mostly I love performing." There it was, out in the open. Would he call you foolish? Tell you to get a real career? Get up and leave? Probably not, but anxiety can lead you to places you wouldn't dare venture with a gun.

Pensive, he sits, staring at you with renewed interest, "Your impulsivity must suit you well in that career path, always having to think on ones feet and remain immersed in the moment." You instantly smile again.

"Exactly! There have been so many times when people have forgotten their lines and I've had to come up with something on the fly. It's…exhilarating." There's a certain sparkle that lights up your face whenever you talk about theatre, it's your passion, you can't help it. You only hope it translates.

"I know it must seem silly, pursuing the arts. Hell you're probably going to go on to change the world in a field like 'biomedical engineering'." You muse, leaning your cheek into your hand as you meet his eyes. It flatters him, you can tell, as he shifts in his seat, puffing his chest out slightly in pride.

"While I thank you for your vote of enthusiasm, I do not find it silly to pursue the arts at all."

"You don't?"

"No. I find it inspiring that you are pursuing your dream. I am pursuing mine. We should all chase after what we want." His eyes are thoughtful, kind, and you want to swim in them forever.

A beat, then, "A lot of people have called me stupid. But I can't see myself doing anything else. I know it's cheesy to say, but it feels fated. Like, I'm supposed to be doing this. It's what my atoms traveled billions of years to do." Staring into your cup, you're hit with the intensity of this confession. It's not something you tell to most people.

"And…" he clears his throat, "I think it is the most admirable thing one can do, to follow what you believe your destiny to be." Good god you like this man, you like Viktor. Not just as an infatuation or a crush, you want to get to know him.

"Thank you, Viktor." Another sip of your drink and the sugar spurs you onward, "Do you happen to like theatre? I'm sure an English lit class somewhere forced you to read at least one Shakespeare play. They did always seem to make the STEM kids suffer through classic literature as some sort of revenge for putting us art kids through math." His gaze fixes you to your spot and you find that even if you wanted to, you wouldn't be able to pull away from it. It's hypnotizing and has you pinned with the sheer force of it. You were learning that above all else, Viktor had a quiet intensity to him.

"I have read my fair share of Shakespeare as well as a few greek plays, but I admit, I read them mostly from an analytical standpoint, and not for mere enjoyment or to marvel in the artistry. My favorite would probably have to be Macbeth, though." He takes another sip of his coffee that still has steam curling off the top of it.

You nod approvingly, "A splendid choice. Your aesthetic certainly fits the more tragic, macabre, dramatic plays. Though I could see you enjoying Much Ado About Nothing."

"I…thank you?" Eyebrows pinched in confusion, he laughs.

"No, no it's a compliment! You just have a very…dark acedmia, gothic vibe to you. it…it tracks."

He leans back in his seat, "Gothic?"

"Yeah. it's incredibly attractive don't worry."

…

Wait-

"Incredibly attractive you say?" And he's sipping on his coffee again, watching as that all too familiar flush spreads over your skin again. Damn your mouth.

"You…I…hell-" You sip your coffee in an effort to keep yourself quiet. He's making you bolder, making you feel comfortable, loosening your tongue, beckoning you into the sea like a siren and you're not sure if you'll be able to tread water.

"Hey," his voice is soft, coaxing, "for what it is worth, I too find you incredibly attractive. I'm sorry, I did not mean to make you so flustered." The sincerity in his voice has you reeling. Placing your coffee down, you rubs at your cheeks with your hands.

"Somehow, I find it hard to believe you're that sorry when you seem so pleased with yourself watching me flush." You accuse, somewhat parroting what he said about you denying your impulsivity. Now it's his turn to flush, his pale cheeks turning rosey at having being caught.

A comfortable silence washes over the both of you momentarily as you sit with the confessions that have just been made. Well…it's nice to know that the attraction is mutual. Both of your coffee's were near finished by this point, and there was a part of you that regretted how fast you drank it.

"How is your leg?" He breaks the silence after the waitress returns to take away your empty glasses. You roll your hips slightly, testing the tension and how far the pain radiates.

"Mm, better. Could be worse, it's starting to ebb finally, but I'm still planning on slathering that Arnicare you recommended all over my leg and laying in my bed until the pain finally goes away." You conclude, hoping to God that the Arnicare works as well as he's hyping it up. "Maybe go crazy and light a lavender candle."

He's digging something out of his bag as he responds, "I'm glad it is feeling slightly better. I fully endorse the Arnicare, it has helped me immensely over the years and I trust it will help you too." The waitress returns to drop off the check and it's too late that you realize Viktor had been looking for his wallet as he places money in the little booklet and hands it back to her with a soft, "Keep the change."

You stare at him in mock offense.

"What?"

"Don't what me, you didn't even let me attempt-"

"There was no universe in which I was going to let you pay, so why even entertain it?"

"Let me pay? You are evil." But you're smiling as you slide out of the booth.

"Maybe so." Is all he says as he stands up, readjusting his shirt and grabbing for his coat. Checking your watch, you realize it's 10:45 and you've spent nearly an hour with this man, and yet it feels as though it's only been minutes. Bidding goodnight to the workers, you bothexit the shop and are hit with a blast of cold air.

"Why are you…you did not bring a jacket?" Viktor stares at you as if you've grown another head. "Are you…it is below freezing out!"

You pause, and breathe in the crisp cold air, "I like the cold, it's not so bad, I promise I'm ok." But he's already moving to grab the scarf from around his neck and balance his cane on his arm.

"Viktor-"

"Shush." Your mouth shuts and you let him wind the red scarf around your neck. It smells like him, woody and warm and you know you'll be breathing it in later.

"Bláznivá žena." He murmurs in what you can only assume is his mother tongue.

"Well, that didn't sound very nice." You chide. His hands still as he finishes securing the scarf. Whatever he was about to say dies on his lips as he stares down at you. Despite the freezing air swirling around you, everything suddenly feels warm. And you know how cliche it sounds, but truly, it feels as though the world melts away and you are stuck in this little circle of warmth.

He looks from your eyes to your lips, "Can I-"

"Absolutely." You answer far too quickly. He laughs again, and its lighter than the others, as if a weight has been taken off of his chest and the laugh had been filled with air, just waiting to escape.

He wastes no time in bringing his hands up to your wind bitten cheeks and pulling your lips to his. They're slightly chapped, but warm and sure and soft as he kisses you. Your breath is gone and you realize every cheesy thing you've ever read about kisses is true. It is all encompassing and earth-shattering. If you knew anything about physics you would say that it feels like atoms colliding.

Seconds, minutes, hours, you don't know how long it is before you finally detach. You leave your eyes closed for a few seconds more, basking in the feeling.

"Wow." It's barely a whisper when you finally speak, opening your eyes to find him staring down at you, smiling unabashedly.

"My thoughts, exactly." His hands slips down your shoulders before one of them finds your hand, the other taking his cane as he leads you back to the parking lot. It's nice, just walking hand in hand with him to your cars.

"This is me." You murmur sadly as you come upon your car, parked in the handicapped parking spot. He stops and looks at you in disbelief, and you furrow your brows in confusion. His hand detaches from yours, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his car keys, clicking the unlock button. The car parked directly next to your beeps and unlocks. You'd parked right next to one another and you absolutely lose it, doubling over in laughter.

"Oh my god that is crazy."

"Well, given the fact that we both have handicapped stickers-"

"Nope, shush, let me have this." You turn back to him after catching your breath and hold out your hand, "Let me see your phone."

He obliges, even unlocking it for you before dropping it into your waiting hand. With half numb fingers, you input your phone number and contact info before returning it to him.

"To let you know how well your recommendation works." You smile as you head toward your drivers side door, unlocking it and sliding into the seat so quickly, you leave Viktor stunned. He shakes his head in mock annoyance and walks over to your window, tapping on it until you roll it down.

"Yes?" But he's leaning in and kissing you again, stealing the breath right out of your lungs. When he pulls away, you're left just as stunned as he was.

"Nothing, just wanted to say Goodnight." He walks off, gets into his own car, right next to you, and drives off, all while you're sitting in your car, window still down, and processing what just happened as the cold blasts you.

Wordlessly, you roll up your window and smile uncontrollably.

For the first time in your life, you are thankful for your chronic pain.

[another-punk-trans-woman]

Wishing all doctors a very

PERSCRIBE ME PAINKILLERS PLEASE IM IN AGONY EVERY DAY PLEASE LISTEN TO ME WHEN I SAY IM IN PAIN FOR FUCKS SAKE

Okay, now that I have your attention:

Let's talk about classism and chronic pain, shall we?

I work a very physically demanding job as an automotive technician. In the past year, I've been having more and more issues with the chronic pain I was told would 'work itself out' (direct quote from one of my doctors.)

I've been seeking a diagnosis for a long time now, and each and every 'specialist' or professional has the same thing to say:

"It's because of your job"

And then don't do anything to help me. Then, when I say "Yes, I deal with traditional muscle aches and pains as described by my coworkers, but also have different pain on top of that" They not only continue to refuse help, but go deaf and pretend I didn't say anything.

The 'physical labor causes joint pain in everyone' idea, combined with the stereotype of blue collar workers being 'tough' and able to push through the pain without help means that most doctors won't even be willing to help manage pain, much less look beyond the appearance of the patient to find any further underlying problems. A few months ago, one of my coworkers had a *stroke*, the day after he went to the ER complaining of intermittent chest pain. They told him it was likely he pulled a muscle at work, and didn't bother even hooking him to an EKG.

To make matters worse, labor industries pay isn't great, and insurance is usually even worse. So for every appointment, I am paying out the nose to be told to shut up and that I'm fine.

The absurd notion that blue collar workers are all looking for opioid painkillers (Something a doctor told me right to my face) or are just fine and exaggerating needs to die, before it kills more people.

[ellieinink]

Code Blue, Heart Stolen

Baek Kang-hyuk x Reader

Genre: Slow Burn, Humor, Medical Drama, Fluff, Light Angst, Social Media AU

Warnings: Medical emergencies, hospital setting, occasional strong language

Synopsis: You’re a trauma center resident trying to survive under the infamous Baek Kang-hyuk. Between chaotic ER shifts, teasing coworkers, and life-or-death situations, you never expected your biggest challenge would be dealing with Kang-hyuk himself. As rumors spread and tension builds, one question remains—are you just another one of his underlings, or is there something more?

Chapter 3: Flatline or Falling?

Location: Morning Rounds – Trauma Ward

You stood at Kang-hyuk's side as he flipped through patient charts, his usual no-nonsense expression in place. Every resident was tense under his scrutiny—except, apparently, you.

"Patient 4B, post-op observation?" he prompted.

Without missing a beat, you answered, "Vitals stable, no signs of infection, but pain management needs adjusting."

Kang-hyuk glanced at you. "Plan?"

"Switch to a lower dose of opioid, monitor closely."

He nodded. "Good."

Good. That was the closest thing to high praise coming from him.

Jae-won, behind you, was quietly screaming into his stethoscope.

Location: Break Room – Trauma Center

You slumped onto the couch, stretching out your aching arms. Kang-hyuk had been relentless today–testing your limits, making you answer questions rapid-fire.

Jang-mi sat beside you, smirking. "You're his favorite."

You groaned. "Why does everyone keep saying that?"

She leaned in. "Because he treats everyone else like an inconvenience. You? He actually talks to you."

You scoffed. "Barely."

Jae-won appeared, sitting across from you. "He actually listens to you."

That gave you pause. You thought back to every exchange–how Kang-hyuk never interrupted you, how he gave genuine feedback instead of dismissing you like other residents.

Jang-mi wiggled her eyebrows. "Admit it. You're a little into him."

Your face burned. "I—What? No."

Jae-won gasped. "OH MY GOD, YOU TOTALLY ARE."

At that exact moment, Kang-hyuk walked into the break room.

Silence.

He raised an eyebrow. "Am I interrupting something?"

Jang-mi and Jae-won were grinning at you.

You resisted the urge to throw yourself out the window.

Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter

[notsocheezy]

V-Day - The First Twenty-Four Hours

Guess who's got two thumbs and no penis? That's right, this girlish-shaped thing!

👍👍

My "the surgery" went off without a hitch! And it couldn't have happened at a weirder time. The news has been absolutely wild this week, hasn't it? Mass Windows system outages, Biden dropping out of the presidential race... probably some other stuff... I'll be honest, I'm a little woozy from the Oxycodone, so a lot of the past week escapes me at the moment. But let me tell you all about the first day. I still remember most of that.

I arrived at the hospital at about 5AM yesterday, and they had me wipe down with CHG wipes even though I'd just taken a CHG shower. I guess they like to be safe. But it leaves a residue that isn't the most pleasant thing in the world. It's kind of like when you step out of the ocean and the salt dries onto your skin in a fine, well-seasoned flaky layer.

After that, they gave me a morphine injection into my spinal fluid, which according to the pain management guy, reduces the overall necessary intake of opiates/opioids (what is the difference between those anyway?). So far that seems to be very true. My new bits don't hurt in the slightest even now, after the injection has worn off.

On the other hand, though, there has been excruciating pain in my chest and shoulders. You see, this was a laparoscopic surgery performed with a fancy robot - the DaVinci XI - and they had to pump me full of CO2 so they'd have room to work. That's right folks - I'm carbonated. And they didn't just give me one new hole, but an additional five incisions on my abdomen, which also don't really hurt but damn are they itchy. It turns out though, being a human balloon is a really bad experience. If I'd had an inflation kink before, this would probably have killed it in its tracks.

When I woke up in Recovery, I was at 10/10 on the pain scale. It was truly miserable. They had to inject me with Fentanyl (Ooooooh, scary!) just so I could breathe. Once they did, though, I was fine. That is, until they moved me onto the bed in my room several hours later. Now the pain comes and goes, but I'm on pills for that.

Other than the chest pain, the most uncomfortable thing is the catheter. It constantly feels like I've just gotten back from a long road trip without pit stops, or the credits just rolled on an IMAX screening of Oppenheimer (I saw that twice, by the way). I have to pee so damn bad, but I'm just kinda... always peeing. Very weird. Nice not to have to get up, but I'm not even really allowed to get up. Which is a shame, because I'm told moving around will help the CO2, ahem, escape. Via the most obvious channel, of course.

On that note, I was on a liquid diet until about an hour ago, and now I've got an omelet and some oatmeal that they forgot to put sugar or salt in. They really want to get my guts up and running again - they gave me a laxative and a stool softener. But I'm nervous about getting up from the bed. I've got more wires attached to me than my PC at home, so I'll need to unhook everything to get to the bathroom.

Anyway, other than being misgendered a concerning amount of times by people who should be able to read the word "vaginoplasty" on my chart, everyone has been very kind. I thought I'd be more scared and depressed being left in the hospital by myself, with all my loved ones hours away, but I've been able to make friends with the nurses.

If you're on the fence about getting this done because you're scared of the recovery process, don't worry. I'm only a day in and I'm doing just fine. Electrolysis was significantly more painful down there than this is. Can't speak for more traditional methods, but the robot is damn good. I, for one, welcome our new robotic sex-change overlords.

Anyway, stay tuned for more. I'm here all week.

[jacensolodjo]

I don't want to be that dude to add a rant onto another post so.

It bothers me when people continue to call House an addict. A dependence on drugs for a legitimate issue is not addiction. His professional and personal problems are not created by an addiction. They're by people not understanding what chronic pain is or chemical dependence. And the fact he's an asshole. And would be a much bigger one WITHOUT THE DRUGS. IS a much bigger asshole WITHOUT THE DRUGS. Because PAIN. Has been an asshole BEFORE drugs.

If you completely cut out the Tritter arc, at no point does House show any real sign of a real addiction. He shows the signs of a man who is not being properly treated for chronic fucking pain.

People in chronic pain on pain management live in constant fear of being called an addict.

House is missing a chunk of muscle. He lives in level 12 out of 10 pain aka agony 24/7. The Vicodin takes the edge off. All of the little sub plots around his chronic pain inevitably fail because then it's a show that isn't all that interesting without the drama of 'addiction' and why he has said 'addiction'. Which is why they slam our heads into it every single season.

Addiction requires abuse of the narcotic. He doesn't get fucking high anymore! He doesn't even chase it! He chases the relief from pain. He takes the narcotics because they help a medical issue.

There are loads of literal medical papers out there written about the whole dependence vs. addiction thing and how harmful it is to patients for them to be called addicts. For addiction to be considered interchangeable/conflated with dependence.

"This conflation originates from the use of the word dependence to describe uncontrolled drug-seeking behaviour in place of addiction in the DSM-III-R, because some lay members of the committee argued that the word addiction was pejorative and the word dependence was more neutral. 'Dependence’ has been easily confused with the term ‘addiction’ when, in fact, the tolerance and withdrawal that previously defined dependence are actually very normal responses to prescribed medications that affect the central nervous system and do not necessarily indicate the presence of an addiction.

Failure to distinguish between addiction and physical dependence can have real-life consequences. People who have difficulty stopping their medications because of withdrawal effects can be accused of addiction or misuse. Misdiagnosis of physical dependence as addiction can also lead to inappropriate management, including referral to 12-step addiction-based detoxification and rehabilitation centres, focusing on psychological aspects of harmful use rather than the physiology of withdrawal."

It should be made clear that dependence is not the same as addiction. The problems with prescribed drug dependence are not restricted to the small minority who are misusing or addicted to these drugs, but to the wider population who are physically dependent on and might not be able easily to stop their medications because of withdrawal effects."

"Physical dependence is when the body requires a specific dose of a particular drug, such as a prescription opioid, in order to prevent withdrawal symptoms. Substance use disorder (SUD), or addiction, is classified as abnormal and is defined by the DSM-52 as a chronic, treatable illness."

"Accurately identifying persons with addiction is critically important for effectively targeting treatment and harm reduction interventions. Misdiagnosis of addictive disorders can lead to a cascade of negative outcomes, including stigma, discontinuation of needed medications, undue scrutiny of both patients and physicians, and even criminal consequences.

Additionally, incorrect diagnosis of addiction can threaten not just patients’ health and ability to function, but their lives. Studies have found that involuntary cessation of opioid pain treatment is associated with triple the risk of overdose death, as well as increased risk of suicidal thoughts and behaviour."

"However, the adaptations associated with drug withdrawal are distinct from the adaptations that result in addiction, which refers to the loss of control over the intense urges to take the drug even at the expense of adverse consequences. [...] Physical dependence is an ordinary biological consequence of taking certain medications for weeks or years— while addiction is continued drug use that persists in the face of negative experience. "

[lifewithchronicpain]

What if I told you that there was a medication that made it possible for my grandma to live at home instead of a nursing home?

And that the same medication allowed my uncle to endure prostate cancer treatments long enough to see his cancer go into remission. And that it helped my mom avoid pneumonia after hip surgery. Or that this medication is the only reason I’m pain-free enough to be able to write this column?

But that’s not all. What if I told you the same medication helps me take care of my cats, as well as the cats at the local animal shelter where I volunteer?

What if I told you that doctors hated this medication? And that many of them also hate anyone who takes it?.

In an age of opioid-phobia, it seems a lot of people – doctors in particular – have forgotten why opioid pain medications like Norco exist in the first place. And why they are such a miracle drug. (Read more at link)

Because of Tramadol I can play with my niece and nephew, foster kittens, do a few manageable hobbies even if I can never work again. I shouldn’t have to fight so hard to have some measure of pain relief when the majority of people who have taken opioids do not get addicted and that risk goes down the longer you take them without any issues.

[chronicbitchsyndrome]

would you be willing to talk about your surgery & recovery experience with tonsilectomy? i know i probably need mine taken out lol but the surgeon who told me that also said that it would be very painful and so now im scared. but ive had lots of surgery so i would like to know if other disabled ppl with lots of pain experience also rate it

YES hello i am VERY happy to talk about this because i had the slickest recovery known to man due to how i took IMPECCABLE care of myself and had a great surgeon who actually follows best practices for recovery instead of throwing ibuprofen at you and telling you to start eating again the same day (true story from the trenches).

so the surgery itself was extremely simple, it's outpatient, you go in, it takes a couple hours, you wake up completely out of it from the anesthesia and awkwardly attempt to drink water while feeling approximately like you just did four shots of vodka and then somehow you end up in your ride's car and go home. honestly the surgery itself was a blip in my day.

the recovery itself is pretty painful, i'm not going to lie. i was prescribed almost two weeks' worth of oxycodone in addition to NSAIDs, acetaminophen, and a healing mouth rinse. this is because, again, i had a competent and compassionate surgeon, which is at a premium in the health care industry. many surgeons will not prescribe opioids whatsoever because of anti-addict bias and severe ingrained ableism. i am not going to lie, i do not think i would have managed without the oxy, and i don't regret using every single dose of it. i also overloaded on THC every night during recovery, it helped significantly with the inflammation.

the pain itself doesn't feel worse than a bad case of strep throat, and if you're getting regular severe tonsillitis, you'll be used to the level of pain this is. i hovered between a 5 and a 7 on the pain scale for the vast majority of the recovery, which was pretty typical for my tonsillitis episodes as well, and the oxy turned that pretty much entirely manageable.

PRO GAMER TIPS THAT MADE MY RECOVERY SO SMOOTH:

bed rest. one week minimum. do not lift anything heavy or strain your muscles significantly (i.e. working out, cardio). two weeks minimum. you do NOT want to pop a scab early. you will bleed into your throat and it will be miserable and scary and you will have to go to the ER. take the post-surgical rest period seriously.

get a humifidier, put that thang right beside your bed, run it full blast. you want to keep your scabs as moist as possible. yes i know that's gross. no you don't want dry crunchy scabs in your THROAT.

drink as much water as you possibly can, even if it hurts; this is what i attribute most of my quick and easy recovery to. i was sipping on that shit 24/7. if you don't let your scabs dry out to begin with, this is much easier because you don't go through a period of it feeling like literally swallowing broken glass, although it hurts to swallow no matter what.

meal replacement drinks are a lifesaver! i got soylent. i could start eating soft solid foods again after the first couple of days, but i still relied heavily on soylent for a lot of my calories until halfway through the second week.

until you're able to eat mostly normally, DO NOT eat or drink anything: acidic, carbonated, spicy, or overly salty. please trust me. please. you don't want to. i prommy.

you don't have to be on a liquid-only diet for long, but soft foods are necessary until your scabs heal enough that swallowing isn't overly painful. cold is going to feel a lot better than hot. apart from soylent, i relied on mashed potatoes, jello, popsicles, ice cream, and soft pastas. once i got past the first couple days, i added soft well-chewed quesadillas, burritos, lasagna, that kind of thing. a lot of people can get away with going back to solids very quickly as long as they don't eat anything crunchy/sharp and chew their food VERY, STUPIDLY thoroughly.

finally, i would also recommend checking out the r/tonsillectomy subreddit. their resources and anecdotes were lifesavers and got into way more granular detail than i ever could hope to cover in a tumblr post.

i also got a fungal infection in my mouth right after the end of my recovery period, which wasn't either my or my surgeon's fault but it WAS the worst pain i had ever felt in my life. watch out for post-surgical infections; the antibiotics they put you on make you more susceptible to fungal infections in particular in the following weeks. if something seems off, DO NOT wait or put it off, contact your surgical team as soon as you possibly can and honestly if it's off in a pain-or-bleeding way just preemptively head to the ER as soon as you can (most surgical teams give you an option to contact them if you do this, so you can call ahead and someone on the actual team can see you there instead of an ER nurse).

finally, i just want to say: this surgery was 100% worth it. i have been sick exactly once since surgery five months ago, and it was a mild cold that only lasted two days and didn't present with throat pain whatsoever. i can breathe, i don't snore, i don't have panic attacks because i feel like my throat is closing up. you have no idea how absolutely unreachable and unrealistic this all seemed last year; i thought i straight up just couldn't ever go to a party or have a hookup again without being bedbound for a week and a half afterwards. and now i... can? i feel so much better and i would unequivocally recommend the two weeks of drugged-out malaise and mashed potatoes and pain in exchange for a lifetime of eased agonies. and again--the pain was extremely comparable to a pre-op episode of tonsillitis for me.

this was sort of all over the place because you asked a very general question, but please feel free to ask any follow-ups you want! if you'd like to chat one-on-one i can give ya my main URL, too (i share this blog with someone so there's no DMs here, sorry)

[twistpixel]

The dug use thing being given a “started as pain management” coat of paint doesn’t bother me because I think those stories shouldn’t be told or anything of the nature it’s just like seems 99% of the sympathy people extend to drug users is that it’s impossible to know if they were one of the (innocent) people who’s doctors deliberately pushed pain meds on them. Like the story of how a pharma corp in the USA was lying about the addictive properties of their products and giving payouts to individual doctors who prescribed mass amounts of them is worth telling but why is it that, or how opioid addiction can happen even in the absence of a structure deliberately designed to funnel patients into addiction, the first thing reached to when trying retell a story about substance use disorder. We live in a world where a parent can’t make a post memorializing their child who passed away from drug overdose without receiving comments about how they deserved it. I don’t think a story about using heroin “just because” is more simple or less complicated or less dramatic or less necessary, to maybe have readers sympathize with a “bad” drug user who “deserved to OD” because like. There are people who think drug users lives don’t have intrinsic worth. Idk

[chronicallycouchbound]

hi I had a question about your cannabis post

i don’t know much about cannabis so sorry if I misunderstand smth

but I don’t understand what “safe” drug use implies,, how can drugs be safe? what’s safe drug use??

i probably have a very narrow view on this topic, so id like to know more

on a different note id like to thank you for your content, I feel that ive learned a lot from this account :)) thanks!!!

(feel free to ignore this)

It’s important to first recognize that more things are drugs than we normally consider: alcohol, tobacco, nicotine, caffeine, cannabis, are all drugs just as much as opiates, benzos, etc. Any medication is a drug.

Any drugs have the ability to be used properly and safely as well as the potential to be used negatively or harmfully. Drugs are morally neutral. Even addiction is morally neutral.

Alcohol can be used to cut loose with friends on the weekend, but it can also be used to cause poisoning. Tobacco can be used to calm down after an argument, but it can also cause cancer. Opiates can be used to manage severe pain, and can also cause overdose.

People have always used drugs historically, and in order to survive, people often need them. Using substances can also not just be medically or recreational, there are spiritual and cultural reasons as well. Some people need substances to manage their emotional or mental needs (especially without supports otherwise).

Any drug can be safe. It’s all in how it’s used, as well as within context.

Safe use looks different for everyone, but personally, I try to encourage methods that are harm reduction focused.

Harm reduction can look like:

• Safe supply of substances to ensure that people are getting unlaced stuff.

• Education so people know how to avoid accidental consequences of their use.

• Access to unused syringes or works to prevent blood borne infections.

• Having a designated driver or trip sitter.

• Sitting with someone while they use in case they have negative effects.

• Access to naloxone/Narcan to reverse opioid overdoses.

• Starting with a lower dose and going slow with use to ensure you’re getting the intended effects.

And harm reduction is so much more than just about substances, it’s things like seatbelts in cars and condoms and STI testing. It’s the lesser of two evils and a primary focus of harm reduction is that it keeps people alive above all else.

Some people like to say “harm reduction keeps people alive long enough to get sober” but I personally feel like sobriety isn’t always the solution for everyone, nor is it accessible to everyone.

But yeah, safe use exists, and most drugs ARE used safely every day. That’s what a pharmacist’s whole job is for.

•

I appreciate this ask, I’m always happy to talk about harm reduction. I co-founded a local harm reduction organization and have done a lot of advocacy around this— everything from reversing ODs, speaking on panels, testifying for bills with the ACLU, training communities on how to administer Naloxone, distributing safe use supplies, etc. I have a lot of personal experience with addiction and feel very passionately about this. I was tired of my friends dying and I just want to make the world a safer place.

[bullet-prooflove]

Help Wanted - Bottles x Reader

Tagging: @proceduralpassion @crazy4chickennuggets @callsignartemis @kmc1989 @darqchilddaydreamz @the-person-in-the-circle @librarian1002 @prettyinpunk85 @thanossexual @@littlestroman @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @lunamoon @s1lverhand @wakeama @adaydreamaway08

When your dad gets sick you pull away from him. Bottles isn’t sure if it’s a self defence mechanism, if you need the brain space or what. All he knows is that you aren’t around, and that you stop picking up his calls. When he goes past your house, it’s dark and locked up. It goes on for a few weeks. The two of you have only been together a few months but the idea of you in pain wounds him, your absence in his life cuts deep.

When he does catch up with you it’s at the supermarket of all places. It’s ridiculous how something as normal as buying toilet roll can turn into a twist of fate. He isn’t looking where he’s going when he comes around the corner of an aisle, and he bumps into you literally. He knows it’s you before he even registers your face, the recognition is instinctive at this point, he’s attuned to your presence. He catches the scent of your perfume, sensual and soft with a hint of mandarin.

You look tired, your hair is pulled back into messy bun and looks like it hasn’t been washed for days. Your face is gaunt and there’s dark shadows underneath your eyes. You are far from the vibrant girl he knows and loves, and it kills him.

“Talk to me.” He requests his hand coming to rest upon your arm, his thumb chasing over the hollow of your wrist. “As a friend, as a lover, I don’t care what.”

It’s at a table, in the outdoor seating area of the café next door, that the whole thing comes pouring out of you. Your dad’s been sick for a while, longer than you realised and you don’t have time anything else in your life right now.

It had started with him calling you at odd hours to ask when Family Fortunes was on, something that he had never done before. Bottles remembers these phone calls vividly, because they always seemed to occur around a similar time on a Saturday. Your phone would ring and the two of you would look at the clock and he’d say “It’s your dad” without even looking at the call display.

At first you had thought he was just lonely, your job as an events manager kept you busy especially with the Santo Padre Summer Festival on the cards. Then one day you’d popped over and discovered he’d had a mini stroke. He’d lost movement in his left hand, he could barely hold the remote, his memory was shot to shit, and he was asking where your mother was despite the fact, she had passed away five years earlier. It was soul destroying.

You are one of the strongest people he knows, so when you start to cry it breaks something deep down inside of him. He shifts seats to the one alongside of you and wraps his arms around you because this shit is far too much for one person to bear. He holds you close as you sob into his chest, cradling you close.

He knows a thing or two about being exhausted and overwrought, how it feels like a weight bearing down on you. After his father died of an opioid overdose, his mother hadn’t been able to get out of bed for weeks. His relationship with both of his parents had been fraught, but he had spent that time taking care of her. He made sure she ate, that she had company and little by little he’d helped pull her out of the depression until she had started to function again. He knows that this shit isn’t easy. That between your job and caring for your father you’re wearing yourself down, he can see in your eyes how your struggling to cope.

“Let me help.” He asks you. “Please just let me help you.”

He must catch you in a moment of complete weakness because you agree.

The first time Bottles turns up at your father’s house, the old man thinks he’s one of the in-house nurses that he’s managed to run off. There’s been a couple of them so far and none of stuck around more than a few days. After spending a couple of hours with your father he can see why.

He’s a veteran, he used to be a Captain. People like that hate anyone to seeing them vulnerable, so they lash out. Bottles thinks that’s part of the reason he didn’t tell you about the mini stroke in the first place, he didn’t want to shift this burden onto your shoulders.

Albert or rather Bertie, is not kind with his words but Bottles has lived through worse. He’s entire life has been far from a walk in the park and he’s now a Prospect in the Mayans. Your father is a cake walk compared to that. He isn’t sure how it happened but the three of you slip into a routine. You’ve taken as many days as you can away from work, so Bottles steps in to cover the time you’re away. He cooks for Bertie, he helps bathe him, cleans him up and changes the sheets if he doesn’t make it to the bathroom in time, he does as much of the heavy lifting as he can until Bertie starts to get a little better.

When you come home, he shoots out and deals with club business. At night, he curls up around you in your single bed, holding your close and whispering tender words into your ear until you fall sleep, surrounded by Blink 182 posters and Evanescence playing on the C.D player because he’d forgotten that they’d even existed. He switches it up with a couple of Green Day C.Ds after he’s flicked through your collection.

“There’s no money you know.” Bertie tells him one day when the two of them are in the living room watching Family Fortunes. It takes Bottles a minute to understand what he’s saying. “She doesn’t get much if I die. That’s why you’re here isn’t it?”

“I’m not here for the money.” He informs Bertie as he raises to his feet and collects Bertie’s bowl from the tray set across his lap and places it inside his own. “I’m here for her, to make sure she takes care of herself.”

“I used to take care of her and now she takes care of me, how fucked up is that?” Bertie says in a rare moment of clarity. “I fucking hate it.”

Bottles can understand that. Parents are God in the eyes of children, and this is what happens when you realise that they’re just mere mortals like the rest of you. He knows how jarring this whole experience has been for you, and for Bertie. Confronting your own mortality changes you, he knows, he spent his entire childhood, thinking he was going to die every time he went under the knife because a child with a disability wasn’t good enough for his parents. He sets the bowls down on the floor beside his usual chair before sitting down again.

“I had forty-six surgeries by the time I was eighteen,” He confides to Bertie, pulling up his trouser leg and showing your father his scars embedded deep within the tissue of his leg. “Suffering isn’t new to me, you can’t imagine the shit I’ve gone through, and I can’t imagine the shit you are going through but I know what it’s like to feel like your life isn’t your own, to feel frustrated by your own capabilities.”

 “I don’t want this for her.” Bertie tells Bottles.  “I don’t want her putting her life on hold to take care of me and I don’t want to end up in one of those homes where they feed you gruel and leave you to die alone in a bedroom where the curtains are still drawn because nobody bothered to open them.”

“I hear you.” Bottles says. “It’s fucking depressing.”

“So, what are my options?” Bertie asks him. “I rely on my daughter and her… What even are you?”

Bottles shrugs his shoulders because truthfully the two of you have never really put a label on it.  All he knows is he’s committed to you; he has been since the moment he kissed you on your doorstep.

“The man who loves your daughter.”

“Boyfriend? Partner? The guy who hoses me down when I make a mess of myself?”

Bottles finds himself smiling before he shrugs his shoulders.

“All of the above.”

“I’m serious when I’m asking you what my options are.” Bertie informs him, his gaze straying back to the T.V. “I need to start figuring shit out before I start losing my marbles and the decision is taken away from me.”

“I could find out.” Bottles offers as he leans in close. It feels like the two of them are engaging in a conspiracy, because the both of them know that the idea of putting your father in a home is not something you agree with. “One of the guys in my club, his mom has memory issues. She started to fall down a lot. He managed to get her into this sweet place up by the community centre. She loves it there, she’s made a lot of friends, there’s all these clubs she goes too, they do some pretty cool shit. I could look into it for you?”

Bertie reaches across the space between the two of them, his strong hand grasping Bottles’.

“Could you?” Bertie requests before he tilts his head to the bedroom door where you’re sleeping. “I have a feeling we’re gonna have a fight on our hands.”

"I'll talk to her." Bottles promises the older man. "See if we can't all get on the same page."

Love Bottles? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Wanna read more? Check out Bottle's Masterlist here!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[scientia-rex]

Ageism is Bad

If I had a nickel for every time a patient comes in with an issue and says, "Maybe it's just that I'm getting old," I'd have way too many nickels.

Here's the thing. Maybe! Maybe it's a direct consequence of aging. Your body will change with time, guaranteed. If you live long enough, like into your 60s, you'll get osteoarthritis, the "wear and tear" arthritis we're all most familiar with. Your skin will start to thin as your body stops making collagen and elastin, and in addition to making you wrinkly, that also has the actual health consequence of making your skin easier to tear and harder to heal. If we lived to be 120, we'd all get Alzheimer's. If we lived to be 150, everyone's kidneys would completely fail.

But there are so many disorders that can be manageable, if not curable. Things we can treat, things where we can slow down progression, things where we can minimize symptom burden. Just because you have osteoarthritis doesn't mean we can't try to tackle the pain, without opioids in most cases. And if you have pain that's changed dramatically in a fairly short period of time, maybe, in addition to the typical diseases of aging, your immune system finally Xeroxed something one too many times and you have rheumatoid arthritis, where you make antibodies against your own joint lining. Maybe you have polymyalgia rheumatica. Maybe you have dermatomyositis. And if you don't tell me about it, or if you do tell your doctor but they brush you off with "oh, that's just getting old for you!", then you're suffering unnecessarily.

There is more than enough suffering in being human and being alive that we can't alleviate. Why wouldn't we try to help where we can?

[emmis15]

Daryl's Three favorite memories.

1-

Daryl Dixon might be a very closed off person with a receptive but unfriendly personality, but even with his bad attitude or rude way of relating to his surroundings, he somehow managed to hit the jackpot amidst the walking dead and the pain.

Katherine Sánchez, the girl he met on the farm, was different from the prejudices that he had already placed on her shoulders. To think that just because of her last name or her millionaire family in New York that she would be a privileged and stupid girl was far from who she was, and one of the first nights we were all together, she could see it.

—I never said being a drug addict is a good thing, don't put words in my mouth. I'm just criticizing how you think people become addicts. It's a Disney fantasy to say 'bad people are addicts' or 'people with no future' because it's false and totally uninformed, especially for a cop. Did you know that overprescribing opioids for every damn physical problem created an entire generation of addicts, right?—Kat asked Shane as she took a long sip from the bottle of red wine.

We were all sitting around a campfire in front of Hershel's house; he was inside sleeping while his daughters, except for Beth who was inside, were outside with us. Kat was next to Maggie, who was glued to Glenn, and that made me laugh because his red face from alcohol and skin-to-skin contact with that girl made him look like a tomato. But I stopped making fun of him to listen to the conversation.

—That's what liberals say, it's the only future, more or less with money or without money, for low-income people and a very normal reality for them, girl. ¿Have you ever seen what those neighborhoods are like?—He asked her, looking at her seriously.

—No, but if you put two neurons together, people addicted to opioids, after they stop using them because they couldn't get them anymore and the authorities shut them down instead of helping them because, I repeat, THEY CAUSED THE PROBLEM they'll seek that feeling elsewhere and end up in those neighborhoods. People with incredible futures or normal people who, I don't know, break a leg, for example, end up dead from using crack or steroids.

—¿And what about the people who sell them? Drug traffickers and distributors, what happens to them? Are they good people for giving them what they need? Because I'm pretty sure those types of people aren't normal or people who got into that million-dollar business that takes lives just because they broke their damn legs or something. —Shane responded.

She sighed heavily as she shook her head. I straightened up and stopped leaning against the tree to look at her; the whole group was silent as we watched them.

—And the economic problems of this shit society and monetary organization, plus the crises we go through, don't ring a bell to you? It's much easier to sell drugs without experience than to get another job. Plus, it pays the bills and supports families, but in the same way, it discards people as if they were nothing, since putting drug dealers in prison doesn't achieve anything because it's a whole organization.

—Maybe you have a point in that, but anyway, it's better to lock up a person than to let them go when they do something against the law.

—¿And what about helping them? You were supposed to be a cop and "help people." ¿Do you think these people were there by their own choice? ¿Do you think they woke up one day and said, 'I want to sell drugs'? This isn't like Breaking Bad.

—Girl, I'm a cop, not the president. I just lock up the bad people and save the good ones. End of story.

—That's very black and white, and life isn't like that. We're gray; you can't lock people up just because they resorted to the last thing they had to feed their families. And believe me, I know you're a cop, and not much can be done, but that's where morality comes in, or thinking with your head instead of brutality. ¿Why not help people for something better and dismantle organizations? Or something simpler, ¿instead of locking up drug-addicted people on the street, take them to a hospital or clinics? Something that actually helps them.

—Why does it bother you so much, girl? I just made a joke, and everyone laughed. ¿Can't you just laugh and forget?

—No, because that's not right, since from your privileged and problem-free point of view, you think only bad people among the poor are addicts and will end up living under a damn bridge. But it's not like that. I know I was very, very privileged in life before all this shit happened, even with that, with not lacking anything and never having to worry about money, I ended up in the same boat as the addicts.

I raised an eyebrow at that; it was odd for a privileged person to defend my previous usual situation with my brother or my neighborhood, but now everything closed when she said that.

—¿To what?" I asked her seriously, leaning my elbows against my knees.

—Adderall and antipsychotics. Now I'm fine because it was like a year ago, but anyway, he can't be such a bastard to say that, and it surprises me that he's a cop, although I don't know why I do it since cops are fucking shit—she said, getting up and taking the half-empty bottle with her.

We all stopped looking at her when she disappeared into the darkness to look at Maggie, her friend since they were kids.

—Her parents pressured her to be perfect in everything she did, so she pretended to have ADHD and schizophrenia in front of a psychiatrist to get those prescribed medications after coming to the conclusion that being at the top of success cost a price. She stopped her pills when I found out, and we noticed that it was killing her, but it's still a recent wound, and besides, Kat has always been an advocate for the poor—Maggie explained as she took a long sip of water, looking at the fire.

I got up from the ground and walked the same steps where Kat's body had gone, leaving me standing in the middle of the backyard near the barn, watching her from afar sitting against the poorly painted and old wooden planks at the back with her legs to her chest and continuously taking sips while looking at the moon.

—For a mommy and daddy's girl, you turned out pretty real—I said as I approached her.

—It doesn't matter who provides you with sperm or who gives birth to you; What matters is who raises you and with what mentality those people show you the world— her gaze never left the moon

—¿Butlers and nannies?

—Workers like cooks or cleaners, my mother's assistant and just a nanny. All immigrants because 'people from difficult countries create workers who don't complain', according to my parents—she said with disgust in his voice. —I don't agree at all with what my parents did or with what they thought they had in their heads, besides it seems shitty to me that those people raised me and never had good pay for their extra work.

—The black sheep of the family, it seems—I said with a laugh in my voice.

—My parents' favorite, in case you didn't notice—the sarcasm in her voice made me laugh.

We stayed silent for a long time, both of us looking at the clear sky, enjoying the cold air.

—My brother was an addict, but he was a bad person.

—¿Didn't he make it out?

—¿Get here? No, he was even in the group before he came here and remained an addict. The pills Glenn brought were his.

—¿Did he become one of those bastards or did he go out as a lone wolf?

I chuckled at the latter.

—Rick handcuffed him to the roof of a building, and when I went to look for him, he had cut off his hand to escape — I said as I grabbed the bottle and took a long swig.

—Police brutality doesn't even wane in an apocalypse, it's not surprising, to be honest — her lips pursed.

—I don't know if he's alive, but at least I know that only one Dixon kills another Dixon.

—My father told me that once, only a Sanchez can bring down another Sanchez. He was talking about our empire as the second-largest bank in the United States and our generational wealth, but I think it applies.

We both fell silent, staring at the stars and the moon with the empty bottle between us.

Daryl thought a lot about that memory when he was trapped by Negan, thinking about Kat and how they had thought the best thing that ever happened to him helped him not to think about the images of Glenn or the loud music that deafened him, he just kept reliving moments, but that was one of his favorites.

Hello, this is my first job, and I'm not a native English speaker, so if there's any mistake, please let me know respectfully, and I hope you like it <3

(I want to clarify that I am not an expert on the topic of drugs or anything related. Everything the character says is based on the research I conducted about reality. If there is anything wrong with the topics discussed, please let me know with all due respect so that I can avoid problems and prevent causing negative feelings for others who may feel attacked by the subject matter)

[thelaithlyworm]

right. have finished season 1 of House MD* and have moved onto something new, a remake of The Day of the Jackal.

have to say, i appreciate what a *dick* the detective spearheading the hunt is. obessive, (technically competent), plays fast and loose with regulations, shitty homelife.... actually it's got a fair amount in common with House, come to think of it.

anyway anyway, i hope this means there are going to be more morally grey protagonists on screen, because then when something bad happens i can shout 'you had that coming!' and eat some more popcorn. (admirable people are fun too, but i require a varied diet.)

so shortly after s1 ends, in a fit of temper at having his ex working at the same hospital, house kicks something he shouldn't and breaks his good ankle, forcing him to spend the next six weeks in a wheelchair. his use of painkillers nosedives once the weight is off his bad leg. does some analysis afterwards and realises that his casework was noticeably, statistically better without the twin vultures of extreme chronic pain and opioid haze pecking at him. grows a pair and either amputates the offending limb in favour of a good prosthesis or incorporates 'wheelchair days' into his pain management routine. (the second option has the bonus that he can cannon through the halls in his speed-striped vehicle and nobody can say anything because what, ableist?) proceeds to get through the next seven seasons without constantly fumbling his Wisdom rolls. Everybody Lives Happily Ever After. \o/ (i know, i know, fixing his pain condition would 'interfere with the story'. and, i knew someone with a messed up leg after an accident and she kept ducking away from amputation, even with all the pain she was in. a difficult choice. but can you imagine? house in a wheelchair? so much extra weight when he wants to bull around, he would be such a dick with it.)

[finding-flight]

when I was at pain management yesterday, I had the typical conversation I had where someone tried to hand me a sample cup and I told them that I didn't need more opioids, so I didn't need a test (my opioids are as-needed and luckily I can usually control my pain with half a pill, so refills are infrequent).

then the PA came in and said that I needed to do it bc it's required once a year. I guess somehow I got at least one refill without a test?? I don't even know the rules anymore.

I was like, "haha, oh, bummer." Then we had a conversation in which I told her that I still wished I could go to PT, but, as I told her might happen last session, I lost my job and couldn't afford it.

She gave a look and said, "Is that why you didn't want to do the urine test?"

And I had to be like "....yeah."

She asked how much it was going to cost me, and I said I didn't know (different insurance than last year).

Bless her, she went and double-checked to make sure that I absolutely had to take the test (I did).

But this is your reminder that (a) pain management doctors are not inherently the enemy, it's the government that is absolutely hamstringing their ability to treat us, and (b) drug-testing patients and making them pay for it is in no way, shape, or form, healthcare.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Steve Brodner

* * * *

The city of Springfield, Ohio, has been thrust into the national spotlight by the racist slurs of Donald Trump and JD Vance directed at the city’s Haitian immigrant population. Springfield matters on many levels: It represents a city struggling to overcome the collapse of the Midwest manufacturing base that served as the driver of America’s economy in the last century. Those struggles include population flight, high levels of poverty, low levels of education, weak housing markets, and stress on social systems and infrastructure caused by foreign immigration.

Springfield is like hundreds of cities across the nation struggling with the same issues. Springfield matters because its citizens have not given up. They are fighting to reclaim and renew their historic city. They are doing so by revitalizing the city’s manufacturing base, focusing on aerospace, technology, agriculture, and distribution logistics. Springfield leaders are attempting to revitalize the downtown business district by creating a business-friendly environment. Springfield is welcoming new residents, including immigrants, by expanding housing stock and recruiting workers to its renewed industrial base.

The challenges facing the leaders and residents of Springfield are daunting and the solutions are multifaceted. But one essential element of Springfield’s future is foreign immigration. Without it, Springfield’s path to renewal will be much more difficult. Indeed, Springfield’s two centuries of growth were fueled by successive waves of immigrants from Germany, Italy, and Ireland.

Each of those waves of immigration brought growing pains, including racial tension and violence. Springfield is now experiencing a new wave of immigration—this time from Haiti. As Springfield city managers acknowledge, the most recent wave of immigration is stressing city resources, but they are actively working on solutions.

Before turning to the commendable response by the Springfield city managers, it is worth noting the degree to which population flight has defined the city’s current crisis and how foreign immigration offers a potential path forward.

The chart [at link] shows the population trend in Springfield, Ohio from 1960 through 2020 (as documented by the US Census Bureau):

Over fifty years, Springfield lost nearly 30% of its population. The population decrease had cascading effects on business activity, education, personal wealth, and tax revenues. (Of course, the population decrease is also a product of the collapse of the mid-century industrial base.)

Based on the Census Bureau profile of Springfield, Ohio for 2020, the city faces the following challenges:

A poverty rate double the national average (22% vs. 11%).

An employment rate of 53.1% vs a national rate of 60%.

A population that lags in college degrees (bachelor’s and beyond) 15% vs  50%.

3,000 vacant housing units—an 11% vacancy rate vs an 8% vacancy rate in surrounding Clark County.

A depressed housing market, with median prices of $175,000 in Springfield vs $231,000 in Ohio vs $412,000 nationally

The US Census report linked above shows some people in their 30s and 40s move away from Springfield—creating labor shortages in the prime working years for adults. See NPR (9/19/2016), Springfield, Ohio: A Shrinking City Faces A Tough Economic Future. Per NPR,

Median incomes fell an astounding 27 percent in Springfield between 1999 and 2014, more than any metropolitan area in the country, according to the Pew Research Center.

The labor flight was exacerbated by the opioid crisis. Per NPR, “Employers say it's gotten harder to find job applicants who can pass a drug test.”

The above challenges are daunting and require a multi-pronged approach. But one thing is clear: Springfield cannot “shrink” its way to prosperity and renewal. It must grow its population to increase its labor and tax base to support increased economic activity.

Fifty years of population declines show that Springfield will not attract residents from Ohio or other states to fuel its growth. In 2020, Haitian immigrants began moving into Springfield for employment. Over the last four years, 12,000 to 15,000 Haitian immigrants moved to Springfield under the Immigration Parole Program. After arriving in Springfield, they applied for Temporary Protected Status (TPS), allowing them to legally live and work in the US.

Adding 15,000 people in four years to a population base of 58,000 is challenging and has impacted Springfield’s social services and infrastructure. But city managers have been welcoming of the new immigrants. See Immigration FAQs | City of Springfield Ohio Official Website.

The city website addresses immigration, in part, as follows:

Community leaders and agencies are working collaboratively to provide programs and solutions to acclimate our new immigrant community and to protect our entire population of Springfield. Some initiatives already executed include: English language classes, driving courses, cultural awareness, banking and home ownership, work opportunities and healthcare. City leaders are also working with state and federal legislators in an effort to get the increased funding necessary to ensure continued public and sustainable for all of our citizens in our community.

Springfield’s City Manager, Bryan Heck, published a video on September 12, 2024. I urge you to take four minutes to listen to Heck, who not only debunks the rumors being spread by Trump and Vance but puts forth a positive case for Springfield’s renewal. See YouTube, Bryan Heck | Springfield city manager addresses false claims

Springfield’s leaders' efforts to revitalize the city’s business base while welcoming new residents, including immigrants, are exemplary, and they deserve praise and support for their efforts.

Instead, Trump and JD Vance have poured gasoline onto an already challenging situation and lit a match by spreading racist and defamatory rumors directed at the Haitian community in Springfield. Their lies have flamed animosity and resentment from some residents of Springfield to an immigrant population that they blame for Springfield’s woes—problems that predated the surge of immigration in 2020. Indeed, as I hope I have made clear, the Haitian immigrant community in Springfield is part of the city’s path to recovery and renewal.

On Thursday, someone called in bomb threats to city hall in Springfield—with the threat using “hateful language” about Haitian immigrants. The threat caused city officials to close schools in the area. See The Guardian, Bomb threat shuts down Ohio city hall after Trump spreads baseless migrants rumor.

Springfield’s mayor and police chief, as well as Ohio Governor Mike DeWine, have criticized Trump and Vance's comments.

So, here we are: A city in Ohio that is doing its best to accomplish an economic renewal that necessarily involves a labor force immigrating into the city finds itself used as a campaign prop by politicians who have no interest in helping Springfield. Instead, the politicians are making it harder for city leaders to manage a challenging situation.

Springfield, Ohio, matters because it represents hundreds of US cities struggling with the same problems. It matters because its leaders and residents haven’t given up. It matters because its leaders and most of its residents have welcomed the Haitian immigrant community and are doing their best to manage their way through the strains caused by a 25% spike in population in four years.

America is a great nation because of immigration. America will continue to be a great nation, in part because of immigration. Yes, the immigration system is broken. But don’t confuse that dysfunction with the energy, talent, and vision re-injected into America with each successive wave of immigrants pursuing the same dream that our ancestors followed to our shores.

What is so pernicious and vile about the comments by Trump and Vance is that they are not attacking the broken immigration system. They are attacking and stigmatizing immigrants themselves, claiming that they are “poisoning” the blood of Americans—a fanciful conceit because the “blood” of Americans is a mixture of every race and ethnicity on Earth.

By falsely claiming that Haitians are eating the household pets of residents in Springfield, Trump and Vance seek to cast Haitians as “others” who are inferior to “real Americans”—defined as immigrants who had the good fortune to arrive in America in an earlier wave of immigration.

If there is a silver lining to the unvarnished ugliness of the rumors being spread by Trump and Vance, it is that they are doubling down on fictions that almost no one believes. The press is on the scent, looking to disprove their vile lies. The more that Trump and Vance repeat them, the more hateful and just plain weird they look.

The Trump-friendly Politico reported on Trump's inability to leave the topic alone in his first appearance after the debate. See Politico, Trump got back on track with the border. Then he started talking about the dogs (and geese).

Per Politico,

For a moment, it seemed like Donald Trump was using his Tucson, Arizona, rally to return to his typical immigration programming after a shaky debate performance. Then he went there — again. Trump repeated the baseless claim that Haitian migrants are eating pets in Springfield, Ohio — remarks that became the stuff of endless social media memes soon after his debate.  [¶¶] But after two days of unflattering headlines and Republicans squabbling over him pushing an anti-immigrant conspiracy theory, Trump once again couldn’t resist veering off into the outrageous.

Meanwhile, Kamala Harris was in North Carolina knocking the ball out the park (again) before a packed rally. See The Guardian, Harris touts strong debate performance as Trump says he won’t face her again.

A video of Harris’s first speech in North Carolina is here, Kamala Harris full speech at Charlotte, NC rally (Sept. 12, 2024). I have the video cued to start at Harris’s challenge to Trump to hold a second debate.

Harris’s body language, facial expessions, and obvious happiness speak volumes about her growing confidence. Although much of the substance of her speech in NC is familiar, her interactions with the crowd and her delivery are improving. Check out a few minutes of the speech if you haven’t seen it. She is a natural and effective campaigner!

[Robert B. Hubbell Newsletter]