You have to be under the supervision of or a licensed MD to administer morphine.
Given the societal pressures exerted by the Drug Warrior system, even the doctors don't want to administer it, even when it is badly needed and explicitly called for. I had morphine once. I can attest to its wondrous efficacy.
My hand had been ripped open by an animal. I called my doctor's office and told them exactly what happened, and spelled out that I knew there was "nerve damage," and that I needed go to the ER. This was one of those piss-ass HMOs that won't cover
anything unless you get their okay first. I guess I sounded too calm over the phone, they wouldn't okay an ambulance. I had to walk a mile to the doctor's office. It was a brisk cold morning, and the next town over, but somehow I made it there.
I had to sit in the waiting room for 15 minutes, bleeding through my paper towels to the point where I was making a mess on the furniture, and the other folks were starting to move away from me. Then I was shown into one of the examination rooms, given a bowl of peroxide placed on the countertop, and directed to dunk my hand in it. The stuff immediately foamed up to a height of 10 inches and was downright
hot. The person left.
After about half an hour, another person came in and scolded me for "contaminating" the counter top with my bodily fluids. I was also scolded for the inappropriate choice of dunking solution. Another bowl, this time filled with Betadine, was placed on the examination bench, and I was directed to continue dunking. At some point that morning, I managed to convince someone that I really needed the examination bench to lie down on.
Two and a half hours after arriving at the doctor's office, I was finally seen by a doctor, for about 10 minutes, with most of that time being spent by the doctor giving anatomy lessons to a resident and assorted other interested personnel whilst poking through the remaining moving parts in my thumb. "Oh, we can't take care of that
here, the nerve trunk has been completely severed. See, here's what's left of it..." (poke, dig, poke) "And the tendon's pretty shot, too... Looks like that is cut about 70% through." (poke, poke, poke). My hand was loosely bandaged up, I was directed to go to such and such a hospital across town (there was another one 2 blocks from this place, but I guess they didn't contract out to them), and
sent on my way.
Yup. You read correctly. I could barely stand at this point. After much haggling in disbelief, I was finally furnished with a taxi voucher. At the hospital, I only had to wait about 20 minutes before I was given a bed, but another hour before the doctor got to me. Again, more poking and anatomy lessons for residents and curious ER personnel. Then, the doctor got on the phone with my HMO with the course of action he had planned for my hand. I heard some exclamations of disbelief on his part, and much screaming about "
THIS is what's
wrong with the American health care system today!" and "this person needs to be operated on
NOW! IMMEDIATELY!" The phone was slammed down and he came back to my bedside. "I'm sorry, they sent you to the wrong hospital. I will call an ambulance to have you transported to the hospital they want..." As it had now been about 6 hours since the mishap, and I had as yet to receive any kind of pain killer, he took pity on me and gave me a small shot of Demoral to tide me over.
It was an hour before the ambulance came (I guess my HMO only used a certain company). By now, there was rush hour traffic to contend with. While en route to the second hospital (the next town over), the drivers got lost. It was another hour before we got there. The Demoral had long worn off. I felt every careening turn and screech of the brakes with great intimacy.
I had to wait about 30 minutes before I was seen, and then the circus started all over again. This was a major teaching hospital, and there were several
tiers of residents, each in turn taking my history, opening up my hand, poking and examining, closing it up again, each as if it had never been done before, let alone by someone who was on the other side of that curtain. I guess they needed to practice "intake."
Eventually it was discovered that I had not been given any antibiotics. I had long passed the point of remembering to ask for them. The previous hospital had wanted to administer them but my HMO had objected, presumably to avoid confusion. It had now been 10 hours since my hand was mauled. While the IV was being set up to administer them, the Head Resident informed me that since so much time had elapsed
sans antibiotics, they would be unable to operate on the nerve 'till the tendon had healed. He directed one of the lower minions to clean and close up my hand, once again, and I began to get the impression that that was going to be it. I asked about pain killers; he mumbled something about a prescription. And then one of them jostled my hand for the
last time.
My scream began low, almost a guttural moan, but became louder as time progressed and I began to experience the therapeutic effects from finally vocalizing my pain... No more Mr. Nice Guy, no more keeping a stiff upper lip, no more cooperation with the teaching of future ranks of M.D.s... I had
HAD it! And,
man, did that feel good. After about 5 minutes of sustaining bellowing, they finally gave me morphine to shut me up. But it was several minutes more before
they experienced any auditory relief. I was that far gone with pain.
Jeff Beck/Going Down/1983"the arms' concert@MSG 9th dec 1983.
jeff beck/guitar
ron wood/guitar
jan hammer/keyboards
fernand sanders/bass
simon phillips/drums
kenny jones/keyboards"