stop. start. stutter.

I'm trying to update more frequently -- it's one of my goals on my 101 Things in 1001 Days list -- so I shall branch out a little from just talking about storytelling, stories, media, etc tonight and grab the soapbox for a while:

If I ever meet one of the hundreds of thousands of fucking assholes who make it impossible for people who actually need it to find doctors who don't live in terror of providing decent pain management, I'm going to punch them in the fucking face.

I've got a genetic disorder that means my joints occasionally decide that they're tired of being joints; they really want to be a lumberjack. It's crippling, but it's not debiliating; nine days out of ten, with my regular regimen of 'scrips and a little luck and careful planning, I'm perfectly capable of meeting the challenges of daily life, particularly since -- thanks to the heroic efforts of my partner Sarah, who does so much around here -- my challenges of daily life often involve "get up, sit in front of computer, go to sleep". The tenth day, though, is one of those days when my hip joint is leaping wildly from tree to tree in the hinterlands of British Columbia with its best girl by its side, or my shoulder has put on women's clothing and is hanging around in bars, and on those days, you'd better believe I am reaching straight for the narcotics my (wonderful, fabulous, incredible) doctor is willing to prescribe.

Last week when I was in there, though, she looked embarrassed and said that the hospital administration is starting to really question anyone who regularly prescribes scheduled drugs, and would I mind if we put together an official pain management contract so that when anyone took a look, she didn't get in trouble?

Not wanting my (wonderful, fabulous, incredible) doctor to risk her license for my sorry ass, of course I said yes. Not being the kind of person who signs anything without reading it through first (except for software license agreements, but really, is there anyone out there who reads those?), I sat there and read it. And number 10 would have confused the crap out of me, if I didn't regularly read a few medblogs. Paraphrased (mostly because I can't be arsed to find it right now), it said:

I agree that if my medication is lost or stolen, I will be placed in counseling and/or rehabilitation for addiction, and will no longer receive any prescriptions for narcotics.

Translation: Isn't it funny how it's always the Vicodin that gets dropped down the toilet, and never the ibuprofen?

I'm lucky; my doctor believes in proper pain management (which is to say, a multi-tiered approach that addresses both proximate and secondary causes of pain, works to reduce and improve the things that can be reduced or improved, will take research and clinical studies into account, will happily consider a holistic approach to pain and pain management including other medical disciplines, diet, exercise, massage, chiropractic treatment, etc, etc -- but that also doesn't fail to take into account that sometimes you're just going to goddamn hurt anyway and that shit ain't right, yo). But really, it's disgusting that there are people out there who are making it so that doctors are terrified of getting played.

I don't blame the doctors. I blame -- a little -- the drug regulations and the culture of paranoia that's sprung up around them, but mostly? I blame the people who are gaming the system. And I think getting punched in the fucking face is a fitting punishment, because then they get to know what it's like to hurt like hell and not find anyone who's willing to prescribe them something to deal with it.