Drug Addict

DRUG ADDICT

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Eberechi was seated in the hospital's reception hall, between two other women waiting to be called in as soon as it gets to her turn. The women would not stop cutting through her thoughts, throwing gossips over her head like basketball. It irritated her, the way they were asking her at intervals, what she thought about what they were saying.

Even though she had no inkling as to what the topic of their discussion was, she kept nodding her head like the Agama lizard she saw on her way to the hospital. At least, to avoid the nudging of the woman in a blue lappa tied over a white short-sleeved blouse by her left.

Then the pain hit her, pulling at her intestines aggressively. Her swollen tummy vibrated. She stifled a yelp and grasped her handbag tightly as though passing the pain to something, living or non-living, would relieve her. But the pain lingered.

Eberechi's pains flew away the second a teenage boy was dragged from one of the wards to the reception. He almost had the same bodily features with her own boy, Osita–the lanky frame with an unusual broad chest. But his face was a total disaster; his hair was a replica of a dense forest. His bloodshot eyes had sunk so deep you had to look deeply to see them.

It seems he's being transferred to another hospital, Eberechi thought; a psychiatric hospital maybe. He struggled frantically with the nurse and security guard that were dragging him along uttering meaningless words.

“Emzorlyn and Coughlin would be a perfect medication for constipation. Wotcha think?” his flawless English came out beautifully with an accent that made Eberechi doubt if he had grown up in Nigeria.

“Chai! Wasted future.” The blue-lappa woman spat snapping her fingers upward and slightly pushing her shoulders, a sign of utter disgust.

“He must have been a drug addict,” the other woman added, squeezing her face like she had just seen a maggot-infested carcass. She could be right, Eberechi thought. The 'emzorlyn' in his statement confirmed that. She imagined her son in the same condition. Tufiakwa! Never would Osita be in such a situation. Never!

Soon, it was Eberechi's turn to see the doctor. The nurse took her bag and ushered her in. “Good day, Doc,” she greeted throwing herself on the chair. The sharp pain came again, this time deeper. She swallowed hard and bit her lower lip. Then she reached for a sachet of Paracetamol in her bag, peeled off two tablets and popped it into her mouth.

“Ndo. Sorry,” the doctor allayed her with a face that contrasted the statement. So blank. “Your test results are out,” he said, shuffling through some sheets in his hands. “Your liver is not in good shape, that's why you've been having those pains. This could be as a result of drug abuse.”

She stood up, untied and retied her lappa. She unbuckled her earrings and threw them in her bag. Their weight could be affecting her hearing ability. “Isn't that the result of the boy I saw outside. Your nurses must have given you a wrong result, Doc,” she said with an air of certainty.

The doctor laughed, a long throaty laugh. She was dazzled. What could be funny? He stared into her eyeballs. “Nwanyi oma, that drug you popped into your mouth. How often do you use it?”

“It's just Paracetamol, Doc.”

“How often do you use it?” he drawled. It was obvious he was driving at something she couldn't place her hands on. What could that be?

“Every day, Doc,” she replied. “I feel light-headed if I don't use it in a day, and it has been a great help to me ever since I started having these bouts of pain in my lower abdomen.”

“Mrs. Uzor,” the doctor called her by her husband's name. “Drug abuse isn't only when you take hard drugs or emzorlyn, codeine, tramadol and the likes.”

This picked Eberechi's curiosity. She shifted and sat on the edge of the chair. The doctor continued, “Taking drugs... any kind of drug... without prescription and dosage is drug abuse. Last I checked, I didn't prescribe that drug for you and even if I did, I'd only ask you to use it for a specific number of days, but you kept using it on and on.”

At this point, she realised she was in no way better than that boy she had seen in the reception. She was as much a drug addict as he was. Just that his was deliberate and hers was unintentional.

“It must have been the reason for the liver problem,” the doctor was still speaking.

Eberechi had learnt her lesson. If she could get out of this liver situation in one piece, she would be mindful of using drugs without prescription from qualified health personnel. She also had to go and warn Mama Kosara who couldn't do without using at least three tablets of Paracetamol a day about the impending danger of her actions. Who knows? She might be saving a life.