It takes all kinds

I'm waiting on some friends. They are late as usual. Yesterday they told me about talking to some people with obvious needle tracks and other scars they didn't want to ask about. It reminded me of a man I used to know. A patient. When I was a student nurse he came into the hospital fairly frequently. I don't remember his name; I don't remember the problem that brought him into the hospital, but it was related to drug use.

I played cards with him whenever I had time. Back then, nursing was as much an art as a science and things like playing cards with your patients was considered therapeutic. It gave you an opportunity to learn as well as to teach. He told me about his drug habit, his drug of choice was heroin. He told me that he took heroin to escape the problems in his life, even knowing that when he came down from the high the problems would be worse, not gone. He just couldn't/wouldn't kick it.

One morning after we had finished our card game and I was leaving, he asked me if I could check to see if the doctor had ordered Methadone (a legal "heroin substitutue") and if he had, to have his nurse bring him a dose. I said, "Sure and if you don't have an order, I'll see that you get one." Then I remembered, so I turned to him and asked, "Today is Monday. You've been here all weekend. Why do you just now need the meth?" He laughed and replied, "I just now ran out of H."

I don't know where you are. Probably long gone. Drug addicts aren't know for their longevity. I still worry about you. You were an intelligent, articulate young man whose future was poured into drugs. I hope you know how much you taught me. Not just how to play cards. Not just about drug addiction. You taught me that it's easy to condemn the actions and not condemn the man.