Beyond the Pain

I still remember the strangeness of listening to the theme from M*A*S*H (the movie) in the darkness of the huge cinema on Calgary’s 16th Avenue. It was the Summer of 1970 and I must have watched it with my ex-wife but I don’t remember her presence. I sat, as if alone, in the dark struck by the strangeness of the opening scenes. The choppers dropping their loads of battered, bloody bodies; all overlain with the hauntingly beautiful but strange contradiction of the theme song.

It was my first exposure to “gallows humour”, the absolutely dark, dismal, strange, black humour that has come to mark the conversations of surgeons in TV series like “ER”, “Grey’s Anatomy”, and “Saving Hope”. Gallows Humour is used to “distance” the medical professional from his/her patient, in an attempt to be objective. I suppose if they weren’t objective the might feel too much, and might go crazy, or worse yet … well … er … attempt to kill themselves.”

The theme song from M*A*S*H, Suicide Is Painless, is a fitting start to this post. I have recently thought a lot about “self murder” given the death of Robin Williams. I knew it would happen. I don’t mind the tributes for he was a comic genuis. Like Joan Rivers he was able to tranform his pain into humour — in itself a kind of visit to the dark side.

But, I resent the attempts of what I call Rag Mags, you know them, to captilize on Robin’s death by endlessly speculating about the “secrets of his last hours” or “he could have been saved.” BULL SHIT!

No one, sometimes even the person who attempts suicide, knows what goes through the mind of the attempter of self murder. No one!

The family, the doctors, the psychologists, the psychiatrists, the other sucidology experts can speculate as to the causes and what was going through the mind of the person attempting (and often suceeding) suicide. But it is just speculation and OFTEN a very painful, emotionally exhausting search for answers that just are not available and will never, ever be available.

Yet why the hell am I writing this post about a subject that many simply don’t want to talk about?

A good god damn question.

Because I seem to be compelled to talk about the S-word, Suicide. Because, you see, I have attempted to kill myself no less than SIX times.

Yes, folks, countem SIX.

Obviously I never succeeded. But, it wasn’t for lack of trying. I have been often asked, “Were you serious?”

To which question I often reply, “Yes. I was deadly serious.”

Even my first attempt, which is marked by the hesitation scars of an attempt to slash my left wrist, was deadly serious. And, subsequent attempts were increasingly deadly.

Who is to blame?

I don’t like to play the blame game. I try to think about who is responsible. I am going to say something that some might find provocative.

The person who is most responsible is the person who attempts and/or suceeds at sucide.

In my next post, I will tell you why I think that.

Epilogue as Prologue

I died three times, that sixty third year of my life.

The first time I died it wasn’t my fault, really. It was his fault. My doctor’s fault, that is. He had prescribed Morphine for my pain. I cleary remember him saying, “Now you know you to be very careful with this prescription. I don’t have to tell you Morphine can kill you, if you’re not careful. I trust you because you’ve always been careful with your meds. But, you need to follow my instructions exactly.”

And, then Dr.White added, and this was his fatal mistake, “if you find one tablet of Morphine doesn’t kill the pain after four hours, take a second one. And, then if the pain still hasn’t subsided ”

Less than twenty four hours later I woke as if from a dream. “Wake up Mr. Lachmuth. Wake up, Can you hear me. Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”

I opened my eyes and looked into the face of one of God’s angels. Coopery red, kinked hair framed a freckled, round pale Irish face. Deep chocolate brown eyes looked intently into mine. “Do you know where you are Mr. Lachmuth.”

“Nuhnhh. Nuhhn”, I slurred, my mouth full of cotton wool and my lips as dry as a prairie dust storm. Big Red, for that is what in my mind I called her, said, “I’m going to lift your oxygen mask and swab your lips with a cotton ball soaked in water. It should relieve the dryness you feel on your lip and in your mouth. Do you understand Mr. Lachmuth Nod once if you do.”.

  In a moment you’re going to feel a little poke in your arm. I’m going to give you some fluids to hydrate you and them I’ll give you some medicine to combat the Morphine. Nod once if you understand, Mr. Lachmuth.”

I nodded once. And, then Red slipped a needle gently into the vein in my left arm. I was pleasantly surprised: it was just a tiny poke. The IV began to drip slowly into my vein. Red said, “Now I’m going to give you a little dose of Naloxone. The Naloxone will counter act the Morphine you took. Here we go.”

The Naloxone hit like a runaway frieght train accelerating down the steep eastern slopes of the Rockies. And, I finally knew the feeling my little brother had been trying to desribe. The lava exquisitely, slowly, caressing the insides of my vein. I pictured PacMan frenetically chewing the molecules of morphine. Better than ten thousand orgasms.Bringing me closer, closer to Heaven. To finally see and know God.

I had always wondered why addicts chased The Dragon. Now I knew. For The Dragon, accompanied by Big Red my guardian angel travelled through my veins, bypassing my heart, and an instant later exploded in my brain. It was like dancing on the stars. Like breathing the Ether between the Planets. In an instant understanding at the depth, bredth, and full extent of my Soul: I finally knew God because just for a moment I was God. And, at the same instant I was all her angels. And, his Messenger.

  Then already the feeling, the knowing, began to fade …

 To be continued

This is a pre-publication excerpt from Crash!: My Journey Beyond The Pain

Copyright 2014, Lyle T. Lachmuth, All Rights Reserved