It needs to be said

Oh, if I had a dime for the number of times I have seen this meme on Facebook!

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Okay, first of all, the fact that insulin prices have skyrocketed is a downright crime. But don’t blame the addicts. It’s not our fault. Complain to the drug manufacturers who artificially inflated the prices. The free Narcan handouts are usually paid for through grants and non-profits. The two situations are not related at all. So take a seat.

Second, Narcan is handed out free to the public as a RESCUE medication. It can be used by the untrained public to rescue someone in an overdose with no deadly side effects if they administer it incorrectly or to the wrong person. Unlike insulin. But it is a rescue medication — same as if you went into diabetic ketoacidosis from eating too much cake and the EMTs would give you insulin to rescue you. Yes, you would get charged for this (ultimately). And, FYI, if you were an addict in respiratory arrest from an overdose, and the EMTs came to rescue you, you would get charged for every dose of Narcan they put in you. So take several seats on this argument, please.

Third, the very argument that dope addicts (et. al.) are deserving of a death sentence because you have to pay for your insulin is ludicrous and demonstrates a complete lack of understanding of what is going on with the addict.

Since most people who believe this sort of horse hockey don’t believe that addiction is a “disease,” I’ll lay it out for you this way.

Diabetes is commonly considered a “disease.” I think we can all agree on that.

There are two main types of diabetes. Type-1 (“Juvenile Diabetes”), which is when your pancreas doesn’t create insulin; and Type-2 which is when the cells in your body no longer respond to the insulin your pancreas makes. I’m not going to get into the pathophysiology of it. Look it up.

Around 90-95% of diabetes sufferers in this country have the Type-2 variety (source). Type-2 diabetes (Diabetes Mellitus) can arise from a few sources, but most commonly has one cause: lifestyle. Period. Most eat too much, get fat, and get diabetes.

Type-2 is also the ONLY type of diabetes that is correctable through dietary changes and exercise.

Most people who have Diabetes Type 2 manage their disease with pills. If you diet along with it and get some exercise, lose the weight you need to lose, and help correct your metabolic disorder, you can get off the pills FOREVER.

But in those hardcore, what we in the scientific community call “refractory,” cases — where they refuse to take their meds or refuse to change their eating habits and start exercising — they end up insulin dependent (often along with pills).

Now, would you deny these people their insulin if it were free? They ARE, after all, refusing to change. They have a deep, constant hunger and craving for sweets. They give in because it’s too hard to overcome. Exercise is really difficult if you’re overweight. It hurts — sometimes a lot. If you’re severely overweight, just walking across the room can put you out of breath.

So would you deny them their insulin because they’re lazy and unmotivated to change?

Similarly, let’s talk about people with high blood pressure. Again, almost exclusively the cause is lifestyle. Not always, but mostly, your typical high blood pressure patient is overweight, stressed out, and sedentary with a high carbohydrate (and high processed foods) diet. Sometimes they drink or smoke. The doctor will tell them they need to adopt a healthy lifestyle — lose weight and start exercising more — in order to get their blood pressure under control, but they don’t do it. Hey, we’re all busy, right? So after a while, the HBP patients have to go on blood pressure medications. Which makes them loagy. Tired. If they’re on a diuretic, they pee a lot. It’s uncomfortable.

So they stop. Blood pressure stays high. After several years, they develop heart failure or some other form of cardiovascular disease. They come into the ER with severe edema (swollen ankles, for instance) and crackles in their lungs from all the fluid backed up.

Would you deny them treatment because their “Chosen Lifestyle” made them get sick?

They’re lazy and unmotivated to change. Why can’t they just take their meds, stop eating, start exercising, and stop being such a drain on society? Hmmm. Where have I heard that argument before?

That’s right. Addicts.

So let’s talk about addiction as it relates. Addiction starts with a choice, sure. But once the biochemical changes take over, it becomes a disease — like every other lifestyle-related disease.

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All of these are diseases of lifestyle. We are human beings with complicated emotions and interactions with the world. Nobody is perfect. Is it fair that insulin costs have skyrocketed? No.

Addicts are entitled to treatment just like diabetics and people with any other disease.

One last thing.

Many of us have seen stereotypical hardcore addicts. I quite recently saw a woman at a gas station who was OBVIOUSLY struggling with a meth problem. She was covered in scabs (and I do mean COVERED). She was jittery, twitching. She was gaunt and unkempt. Dirty. She smelled horrible. My intial reaction was not compassion. Oh no. I was repulsed. Angry. Worried that she might hurt me. I wanted to pay for my stuff and get away from her as quickly as possible.

Same reaction this woman probably gets from most people.

I have also recently seen a 400-pound diabetic, riding his scooter at Walmart, picking up his insulin at the pharmacy counter. While I wasn’t quite as quick to feel that wave of judgement, I was indeed repulsed. His clothes were too tight, his fat rolls were exposed for all to see. This was my knee-jerk reaction.

Same reaction this person probably gets from most people.

The point of this is, I recognized that I felt that way. I knew I should feel compassion for them both. I made myself see them as human beings with problems because I know they are! I know the struggle. While I’ve never been 400 pounds, I am myself severely overweight. And while I’ve never been a methed-out tweaker, I was once addicted to drugs and equally down on my luck.

Would you want someone thinking that about you? Or your daughter? Or your mom?

Nobody is perfect. ANY of us can be in this position. Anybody. Learn compassion.

Doesn’t matter how “together” you have it. It could happen to you too. We are all, due to our biological nature, capable of becoming addicts. Every single one of us. Anything we take into our bodies that effects the neurotransmitters — under the right circumstances — is possibly an addictive substance. That’s just biology.

We can gain weight. We can get high blood pressure. We can get diabetes. All under the right conditions.

So the next time you see this stupid meme, remember that the problem here isn’t that we are giving Narcan to dope addicts. Or that Diabetics are paying $750 for insulin. The problem is, we are flawed human beings who need help. Some of us more than others.

If people hadn’t been kind to me while I was recovering from my addiction, I would have NEVER made it. Seriously. I have a lot of people to thank. People who knew me “in the before times” who believed in the person they knew was underneath the problems. They supported me and guided me. They didn’t approve of my addiction, but they helped me get better. That’s the key.

Some drove me to doctor’s appointments. Some listened when I was bummed. Some bought me healthy food and groceries when I had none. Some took me to the pharmacy so I could pick up my medications. Without these helping hands, I wouldn’t be here.

I really wouldn’t.

Their kindness is why I am here. Why I fight. Why I’m in school becoming a nurse — to pay back some of the kindnesses that were extended to me when I felt I didn’t deserve it (and when the judgemental people of the world agreed with me.)

Judgemental people of the world: bite me.

Remember that simply being decent is sometimes the best a total stranger can do. So … do it!

What’s your problem?


“Human kindness has never weakened the stamina nor softened the fiber of a free people. A nation does not have to be cruel to be tough.” – Franklin D. Roosevelt

 

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Posted in + recovery, AA, addiction, depression, gratitude, Inspiration, loperamide, loperamide abuse, opiates, sobrietyland, therapy | Tagged , , , , , , ,

Opportunity to help

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Hi Folks

Sorry I haven’t been around much. I’ve been studying hard and trying not to fail in Nursing School — I’m in the middle of prepping for finals now, and it’s a bear.

If you or someone you love has been addicted to loperamide (Imodium), please let me know as soon as you can. There is an important opportunity for you to help others — by helping form a better and more comprehensive understanding of the drug and it’s effects. Your input could be TREMENDOUSLY helpful in furthering research.

Please write to me at capathy@me.com — I’ll send you all the pertinent information. You won’t need to go public, and any information you provide will be kept confidential.

Thank you!!

MM

 

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Survived first semester of Nursing School

nurse

You always know it’s going to be difficult, but people are rarely prepared for exactly how difficult it will be — or in what form that difficulty will take.

I am talking about Nursing School: the most notoriously challenging (yet rewarding) subcategory of health care, known to make even the most elite students cry.

To put the challenge into perspective, allow me to cite an example. One of my fellow students, whom we will refer to here as MissBio, is a former pre-med graduate with a four year degree in biology and organic chemistry. MissBio wanted to shift gears from pre-med into nursing because, after watching some professional doctors act callously toward their patients, she didn’t want to end up like that. She felt she could better serve her patients through a more whole-person approach like nursing.

Like me, she is an A-Type personality with a straight A record to back it up. Like me, she thinks like a doctor, not like a nurse, so she (like me) is struggling with the shift in mindset. Midway through the first semester in Nursing School, MissBio felt she was losing her mind, intensely frustrated at her failing grades. She ended the semester with a solid B, just like me. MissBio said, and I quote, “This is harder than anything I did in pre-med. ANYTHING.

That made me feel better. I’m not one to accept a mere B sitting down, but considering that a very large chunk of the Semester 1 student body didn’t pass at all (easily 1/3 the class as rumor has it), I am happily accepting my B and preparing for Semester 2, wiser for the experience.

What makes nursing so hard, you might ask? I think it’s really one of those, “you had to be there” type things. It’s difficult to explain. It’s just really hard.

First of all, Nursing is NOT Doctoring. There are no medical diagnoses (but there are nursing ones) and you don’t prescribe medications. You are there, basically, to provide comfort and aid. That’s it.

Beyond that, there is a framework to nursing that is entirely its own thing. For the first semester, it’s all about Delegation. Leadership. Roles. Prioritization. Rules. Laws. Torts. Privacy. You will learn thousands of acronyms beginning with the basis for all things Nursing: ADPIE. This will become your whole life if you’re planning to be a Nursing Student — because this next acronym is dependent on mastering it: NCLEX.

Think of it like this: Nursing School is like a video game. There are four levels, each one ending with a boss battle, and at the end, there’s one Final Boss Battle (the NCLEX). I have just finished level 1 and beaten the first boss, but there’s a long way to go to get to the end because each level is just a wee bit harder than the last.

Oh! One more acronym: SATA. These are multiple choice questions on exams (Nursing School is notorious for them) which are “Select All That Apply”.  If you’ve never done them, you will quickly learn to hate them. Despise them. Wish there was a law that said they couldn’t ask them. These questions will bring even the smartest, most experienced person to their knees very quickly. They are designed for you to get it wrong. They really are! Get one selection wrong and the whole answer is wrong. Good luck.

The actual nursing part — the “clinicals” — are not usually any big biggie for most people. At least in the first semester. All of our assigned patients were stable (and we were only assigned one). We did vitals, changed bedding, did bed baths, and administered meds and injections with assistance. And of course we did charting and paperwork — because what hospital setting would be complete without tons of charting. Even as a student nurse, I spent more time charting than having actual contact with my patient.

So, yes. Water is wet and Nursing School is hard. Boo hoo for me, right? I’ll be okay.

But props to my fallen brethren who didn’t make it to Semester 2. Gone but never forgotten. Among them, a dedicated EMS worker and an extremely smart Army Medic who were both gearing up to be incredible nurses. Please don’t give up — apply elsewhere and find your niche.

I will keep going and hope to make you proud!


“My scars remind me that I did indeed survive my deepest wounds. That in itself is an accomplishment. And they bring to mind something else, too. They remind me that the damage life has inflicted on me has, in many places, left me stronger and more resilient. What hurt me in the past has actually made me better equipped to face the present.”― Steve Goodier


 

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CHPA Loperamide Addiction Site

The Consumer Healthcare Products Association has released their site regarding Loperamide Addiction: https://www.loperamidesafety.org/lopesafety.jpg

My deepest thanks to the kind folks at the CHPA who invited me in to help develop this informative campaign so we can better get the word out to the healthcare community at large regarding safe loperamide use. Let’s continue to inform and save lives!

Posted in loperamide, loperamide abuse, Loperamide in the News, sobrietyland | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,

Nursing School Begins

seattlegrace.jpgI am not an ordinary student.

It’s funny how people react to me in Nursing School. At 50-years-old, I am what is commonly referred to as a “returning adult student” or, sometimes, a “non-traditional student.” Yale’s euphemism for us is the “educationally-interrupted.”

In my mind, I’m just another student going to class. Coloring my greying hair, taking ibuprofen for my aching back and all. I don’t see the old chick going back to school.

I cross the quad like any other student, with my 50-lb books in my grey North Face bookbag with my long red hair pulled back in a scrubby ponytail like many other students. I wear a tee shirt and jeans with nondescript sneakers or shoes on my very tired and aching feet. I do not walk briskly. Rather, I stroll, unencumbered by youth and first loves and first times away from home.

I’m not sure if other students automatically assume I’m a dotty teacher. Or maybe some weird adjunct faculty. I often forget that I’m not 18 years old anymore — and I forget that other people may not see me as just another student.

Which is fine with me at the end of the day, but it makes for something of a lonely experience. I don’t have much in common with most of these teenagers anyway. And the minute I open my mouth, it’s obvious that I’m not like everyone else.

Consequently, I think on a very different frequency than the much-younger students do. Consider that if they are 18 years old, they were only one-year-old when the towers fell on 9/11. I was thirty and a government employee working that day. I have a whole, long 9/11 story — they don’t. What I saw that day, they’ve only seen from the comfortable distance of time in movies or TV shows or books.

A brief survey of the Nursing 101 classroom convinces me that I am also possibly the oldest person there next to the teachers. Out of apx 60 incoming freshmen, there is a smattering of adult people either in their 30’s or 40’s. One woman wears her greying hair proudly. Two others have, what I like to call the “I want to speak to your manager!” haircut and color. But by and large, the student body is 18-22 YO.

In the grand tradition of the nursing profession, most are women; about 10-15% are male. One of my fellow students is a very nice lady who lives near me and offered to give me rides to clinicals on Fridays. Of all my classmates, she is probably the closest to my age — she is about 5 years younger than I am. She has a few kids who are teenagers and after years of home schooling her kids, she’s embarking on a long-dreamed of career as a nurse.

Interestingly, most people in the group are there because a nurse had a positive effect on them at some point in their life. That’s pretty cool.

But it’s clear that there’s differences in our thinking. I have a lot more experience with disease process than they do. Years of studying anatomy, physiology, medications — since I was about 10 — means I have a breadth of experience and knowledge they do not. I hear them speak about medicine and it reminds me of when I was 16, trying to make sense of my father’s failing health with the limited understanding I had at the time. I have much better comprehensive and complex understanding now.

BUT — and this is an important distinction — by-and-large, my cohorts are learning more and performing better than I am. Oh! For all I know, how much more there is to know!

Why did I fail? Honestly: hubris. Because so much of what we are learning feels like repeat information for me. Like it should be common sense. My brain is refusing to engage, refusing to really LEARN the way they want me to.

The importance of testing is paramount to passing Nursing school. Everything at college is geared toward passing that all-important apex — the NCLEX exam — the nursing licensure. So even the smallest detail is taken into account because, if the NCLEX thinks it’s important — even if my brain does not — it will be asked on the exam. And if I don’t know the answer because my brain is busy saying “that’s stupid!” — I will fail.

As happened last Thursday. Our first major NU101 exam.

Most of the first exam was comprised of legal issues, knowing the exact roles of the medical team, and infection control. I studied. I paid attention to details as best I could. But most of what we were learning felt rote and boring. My brain HATES that stuff. I am desperate to show off what I can do, and they’re making me learn the differences between a tort and a law.

So… despite, or due to, my cocky indifference, I failed. Not spectacularly, of course, but shamefully nonetheless at a mere 72 (75 is passing). About half the class failed the exam, so I’m in good company. Most of the rest passed by 5-10 points. The elite, however — well, they studied more effectively than I did and, therefore, did better than I did.

Now, you might say that 72 isn’t all that bad. Aw, that’s cute. You’re trying to appease me, and I appreciate that. But 72, nonetheless, is failing, so I must now endure a process called remediation. I meet with one of my professors to go over what I did wrong and how I will move forward in grace and start passing my exams. I’m sure there will be additional homework involved as well.

Then came Friday, my first real clinical, where I am assigned a patient in an actual hospital and get to “practice” on them.

It was my first time in this particular hospital. I was walking around in my green student scrubs and white lab coat (I was the only one of my classmates who chose to wear The Coat.) I noticed several other teams of students from other schools wandering around the hospital looking lost too.

But, keep in mind, I was coming off the failed test the day before, still beating myself up about actually failing what should have been an easy test through nothing more than sheer hubris. Maybe I’m not meant to be a nurse, I thought, maybe this whole thing was a mistake.

My team of 10 met in the cafeteria around a large table where we would choose our patient assignments. Our instructor rattled off the condition of the first (a simple UTI) and one of the girls chose it. I was grumpy and miserable and wanted nothing to do with this. I thought, for sure, I’d get thrown out for being a fraud. Who was I to think I could be a nurse, anyway? It was 7am, I was half-asleep and I had barely consumed any caffeine, had only a granola bar in front of me for breakfast. I felt thorougly and completely sorry for myself.

The next patient assignment was a 66-year-old woman admitted two days prior in a hypertensive crisis. “Big whoop,” i thought. Dammit, if I wasn’t determined to be miserable! As my instructor continued the rundown of the 66 YO’s condition, I could actually feel my brain start stir a little. It was getting interesting. This poor lady had a laundry list of problems including renal failure.

Then, once my instructor started listing off the lady’s medications, after one particular mention, I looked up from my half-eaten granola bar and said out loud, “Wait. What?!?” It was a medication that I knew. I knew was contraindicated for renal failure. Why is an elderly woman in renal failure being prescribed a med that will worsen her condition?

I’LL TAKE IT.

Brain now alive and zipping along at 100 miles an hour, I hopped on the elevator with my cohorts with my phone fishing through Medscape and looking at the latest research on renal failure and hypertension. We reached our floor and wing, and were set loose to our assigned patients.

First step, check patient’s records. As a novice, I didn’t know where the records were, and I didn’t have a password for the computer systems yet, so my ability to get data was limited. They had a med list for her — a mile long — filled with unnecessary medications and duplications. I wanted to read through Miss M’s chart — a three ring binder with several pages and pages of procedures and history — but didn’t get much chance before I was shuffled into her room to do an impromptu head-to-toe basic physical exam.

So I went in to introduce myself to my patient.

They say you always remember your first patient. I don’t know if they mean as a student, or while you’re in practice, but I will likely remember Miss M for the rest of my career either way. She was a surprisingly spry 66YO AA female, about 5’3″ tall, sitting up in bed and having her breakfast, most of it was uneaten. She grimaced as she took a sip of her coffee (it wasn’t to her liking.)

Most of the students are shy at first. They don’t know how to act in this new environment without feeling foolish. Me? I was a stage performer before all this, so I know how to feel foolish AND greet a crowd of strangers. I just walked into her room as if I owned the whole hospital, smiled, and greeted my patient openly and fondly.

I found her to be alert and oriented, though softspoken, and very cooperative despite what I had been told by staff. I’m a pretty friendly person, so it’s possible that my efforts to put her to ease helped her mood. I noted that she was missing her entire bottom row of teeth. Admitted two days for hypertensive crisis and is in end-stage renal failure for which she’s been receiving dialysis treatments three times a week for the last six months.

As I was standing over her bed asking questions about her medical history, I tried to be careful with what I said. I had to remember what we were taught in class (the test I failed) on SCOPE OF PRACTICE — I am not yet a real nurse, so I must remember my place. I must not overreach.

Also, I felt a growing discomfort in the power difference while standing OVER her bed. I remember what it was like to have med students and nurses standing over me poking me and prodding me and asking me things. It’s intrusive. Lying on a bed, you’re so vulnerable…. frankly, it felt rude. So I grabbed a chair and sat down to chat with her in a more eye-to-eye fashion. No sooner did I do this, than my instructor came in and hurried me back out to view an IV procedure.

In my few moments with Miss M, I found her to be friendly and engaging. She lives alone not far from the hospital in her own apartment. She has a daughter and two sons. One son helps lay out her medication for  her and checks on her when he can. She has trouble taking her medication because there is so much of it, it’s confusing. She also has dialysis for her kidney failure three times a week, but often cannot go.

I want to tell you I know more, but that’s about it. I got shuffled out so fast, I really didn’t have a chance.

And frankly, I was so disoriented in the hospital, being that it was my first day, I didn’t know what to do. And my instructor had 8 other students to work with, so I had minimal oversight. I busied myself with the stack of paperwork I was given to fill out, most of which could be done from her charts — which were incomplete.

The five hour shift passed surprisingly quickly, and soon we were all in the cafeteria again for a debrief on our patients. I have to tell you — I should have, but I honestly didn’t care about anyone else’s patient. I only cared about mine. I can’t report much on the UTI patient (I believe she was being discharged), nor do I know much about anyone else’s patient (or, rather, client as they like to call them now). I was busy on my phone checking research and cross-referencing medications.

When the teacher came around the table to me and asked about my experience, my brain lit up like a neon sign and went to town.

I was chattering away a mile a minute. I presented the case. I talked about my patient’s history, the circular link between hypertension and kidney disease, how the pharmacology of the meds she is on could be exacerbating the situation. How if I could, I’d talk to her physician about her polypharmacy issues. How dangerous some of the meds are and how, particularly this one and this one, have unexpected consequences when prescribed together.

I expounded. I spoke definitively. I spoke from a place of earnestness and evidence-based fact. I cited papers. Seriously. I cited papers. All off the top of my head.

Shit, I admit — I impressed myself.

I felt like a race horse that had finally been let out of the barn.

Then my teacher looked at me and said, quietly, “So what are your nursing implications?”

My nursing WHAT?

“Your nursing implications,” she said calmly. “What would you do for your patient? As a nurse.”

Silence. You could practically hear crickets. I was momentarily silenced and dumbfounded. I had to switch gears..

“Uhm,” I began unsteadily, “I guess I would watch for edema and monitor her fluid levels? Make sure input and output are consistent?”

“What else?”

“Uh… well… uh… I would begin planning her discharge. Her BP is stable. I would maybe recommend her to social services to make sure she was hooked up with someone who could make sure she gets her meds on time and goes to her dialysis appointments regularly so she doesn’t get into a crisis situation again.”

“Anything else?”

I’m sure she was looking for more nursey-type things like watching for pressure sores and such, but I couldn’t think of any. So, I went with what I knew.

“I would talk to her treating physician about all those meds. I know this is an acute care situation, but somebody needs to do something about that!”

“Do you think that’s within your scope of practice?” She asked.

“I don’t know, but I would feel morally and ethically bound to say something.”

“If you did, what would you say?”my instructor pressed.

“Huh?” I asked, dumbfounded again. What was she driving at? “What do you mean?” I asked.

My instructor said, “You would do your research, right? And present the doctor with your specific findings and cite those sources of yours, right? You would be specific, right? Because sometimes doctors don’t always get it right. They don’t always know every side effect and interaction, right? You need to be respectful.”

“Yes ma’am.”

I don’t know if I was right or wrong. I am not an ordinary student.

Now if I can just pass, I’ll be fine.


“Pretty good is not good enough, I wanna be great.” — Christina Yang, Grey’s Anatomy


 

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Economy-Sized Loperamide Being Phased Out

lopebottles

I recently noticed that our local Walmart has clearanced out their large quantity loperamide bottles (their 200-count size bottles). Right now, the max quantity available is 48. When I asked management why there has been a change, they said they were directed by corporate to clearance out the drug; it will no longer be available in that quantity in stores.

This change is the direct result of the rise in overdoses and deaths resulting from the abuse of Loperamide (brand name: Imodium), an over-the-counter opioid used to control diarrhea. This past spring, the FDA sent out a call-to-action to drug manufacturers and sellers, requesting that they no longer sell bundled packages of mass quantities of the drug voluntarily, hoping to slow the tide of addicts who are turning to the drug as part-and-parcel of the nation’s opioid crisis.

What does this mean for you?

If you have occasional diarrhea, it isn’t really going to effect you. You can still obtain loperamide/Imodium on store shelves in quantities up to 48-count. If you have a gastrointestinal disorder that requires 8 pills a day, this means you will have to buy your loperamide/Imodium more frequently as mass-quantity bottles will become harder to find. The drug remains inexpensive and maintains its over-the-counter availability.

However, if you are an addict who has been using loperamide in mass quantity, this may become a changing time in your life.

As an opioid addict, the thing I feared most of all — even above nodding off and never waking up again — was withdrawal. I know many addicts who feel the same way and will do whatever it takes to make that feeling go away. Until you know what withdrawal feels like, it’s hard to imagine why anyone would do something crazy like take 144 tablets of an anti-diarrheal drug in order to make that feeling stop.

In medical school, we are taught that withdrawal is like a bad flu — hot and cold flashes, aches and pains, chills, sneezing, runny nose, etc. But withdrawal from an opioid is many orders of magnitude worse — aside from sharing a similar set of symptoms on paper, they have nothing in common.

I am clean now and have been for years, but I had to go through hardcore withdrawal to get here. Not only did I have to experience withdrawal from a traditional opiate, later, I got to do it all over again with a much worse opiate — loperamide. I have spoken to so many people who completely agree with me that withdrawal from loperamide is far worse than any regular opiate they’d been addicted to previously (including heroin withdrawal).

All the more reason not to use loperamide in mass quantity.

But people do it anyway. And that’s why the FDA and others from around the country are making efforts to help. Part of that effort is limiting access to the drug. So far, there is no governmental mandate — nothing in the law — that says loperamide cannot be sold. The FDA requested voluntary packaging restrictions directing their concerns at companies such as Amazon and Walmart. Amazon, for one, offered loperamide in quantities as high as 10,000 pills at one point. Today, that is not so.

Those that have been marketing and selling the drug in mass quantity to addicts are not happy about these changes, but that’s too bad.

I know that there has been some legitimate concern raised among those in the IBS communities that limiting access to loperamide will affect their ability to live and live comfortably. Again, I stress that nobody wants to take the drug away from those who need it for legitimate medical reasons; however, it is necessary to find ways to limit its destructive power.

I am glad to see that the world is finally taking notice, taking this addiction seriously, and responding.


“Education is the most powerful weapon which you can use to change the world.” — Nelson Mandela


 

Posted in + recovery, AA, addiction, education, loperamide, loperamide abuse, Loperamide in the News, sobrietyland | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments