The Harder They Fall

by Gary Stromberg

  I get discharged, go over and get my mental health checked out—no problem. So I’m using this Demerol, which is to me better than the Percocet even. And I was taking it way more than I should have been, and finally was getting down toward the end of my supply. Obviously the doctor wasn’t going to be giving me more drugs. I had one last checkup with my back surgeon. Well, by the time that came around, I was down to one 100 milligram pill of Demerol. And Mary drove me down to the Twin Cities. It’s a little over a four-hour drive from where we live, so I took that pill before we left and was fine on the ride down. But he checks me out, and I start having anxiety attacks. I’m out of the pills and have a long way home. I said, “Doc, do you think I could get a prescription?” And he said, “Absolutely not!” He was even mad to be asked. I went on, “Doc, I’ve got a long way to go. I own a pickup truck, it’s not like driving a car.” And I begged. And begged. And he’s goin’, “Nope,” and I kept begging. I would not leave the office! (Mary wasn’t with me, she was out in the waiting room.) Finally, just to get rid of me, he wrote me out a prescription for one tablet, one 100 milligram tablet. There was a pharmacy right down below. The pharmacist looked at it three times! You know, I came that close to takin’ a pen and adding a zero. But if the doctor called downstairs, I’d be in big trouble. Well, one was better than none. So the pharmacist filled the one, and the ride home I was fine. But by the time I got home, the drug was wearing off. Then I really started having anxiety problems. I broke out in sweat. My muscles twitched. My whole body was wretched. I drew a hot water bath and sat in the tub, hoping that would relax me. “What,” I thought sitting there, “am I going to do?” A few months before, I’d read in a magazine about people who go to detox. The first couple of days, they put you on some kind of drug to help you come off of it. I thought, “Man, I bet that’s the way to go!” So I called Mary, who came into the bathroom, and told her, “I need to go into a treatment center and get help. I’m flipping out here!”

  Mary and I packed my bags and we get to the local hospital where there was a treatment center on the top floor. You have to sign up for a minimum of seventy-two hours. You’re locked up and can’t leave. I filled out this form, and gave Mary and Andy a kiss, and they walked out the door. They took me to my room, the nurse came in, and I asked, “When do I get some Percocet and Demerol?” She starts laughing. I said, “What’s wrong?” and she goes, “What makes you think you’re going to get some drugs?” And I go, “I read somewhere that when you come to places like this, they do that so you don’t … they ease you down off the stuff.” “Well,” she goes, “they might do that at some places, but we don’t do that here.” And I’m looking at the one and only window in my room, small with steel bars on it, and I’m thinking, “Oh my God!” I start bawling. “Why, I gotta have some of that stuff!” She goes, “Well, I’ll give you some Valium.” I’d had Valium, and it kind of relaxes you a little bit. So I’m sobbin’, and she comes in later with this paper pill cup and hands it to me with a glass of water. And I look in it and say, “Man, you forgot to put the pill in there.” She goes, “No, it’s in there.” Valium is so small anyhow, and it was like a quarter of a Valium. I go, “This isn’t going to do any good.” I’m bawling. She says it will take the edge off, so I take it. I didn’t use the water. Then after I swallowed it, I took my tongue and licked out that paper pill cup for any residue in there. About forty-five minutes later, I could feel the effect of the pill. It kicked in, sort of relaxing me, but I remember thinking I had to talk to the doctor, knowing I could convince the doctor to give me some drugs. I just knew I could!

  Well, it was three days before I could see the doctor. I go in there and the lights are turned down, and he’s looking at somebody’s X-ray on that lighted board. And I said, “Doc, if you just give me one shot of Demerol, I promise I won’t ask anymore.” He didn’t say anything. He just kept looking. I asked him again. He still didn’t say anything. Honest to goodness, I get down on my knees, I start tugging on his pant leg. I said, “Doc, one shot of Demerol and I won’t ask you again.” He looked down at me slowly. “Stand up, Dick,” he said. “You’ve been over three days now without anything. I’m not going to give you anything, so don’t even ask again.” And he sent me back to my room, sobbing and crying. You get so emotional during that time. For me, withdrawal and hitting the wall in a race are both very much alike! It’s like the last few miles of a marathon where your whole body aches, especially your bones. Even though they are much alike, the marathon aches pale compared to the withdrawal aches!

  I was there for nine days, and on the ninth, a doctor, a couple of nurses, a counselor, and my wife, Mary, came in. They go, “Dick, your body has pretty much rid itself now of all the toxins of all those painkillers, but now we have to teach you how not to abuse these drugs anymore. What we’d like to do is have you stay here for thirty days for in-patient treatment.” She didn’t get the word “treatment” out of her mouth. I said, “Treatment! I don’t need treatment.” I said, “Don’t you know who I am? I’m Dick Beardsley, the marathon runner. I’ve got willpower! And now that you’ve got me off this stuff, thank you very much, I appreciate what you’ve done, but now that you’ve got me off of it, I promise you this, I’ll never use that stuff again, because I’ve got willpower like nobody else.”

  They go, “Dick, willpower doesn’t really have anything to do with maintaining your sobriety.” I said, “It has all to do with me. You could come in here right now, take a chainsaw and cut off both my legs and both my arms, and I guarantee I wouldn’t ask for an aspirin.” “Dick, that’s really not the way it works.” I said, “Well, that’s the way it works for me. Nope, I’m not going to treatment, whatever you call it.”

  The next day, they came back and repeated the same thing. I said, “No way. I’m out of here.” At that point, they had to let me go. So they let me go home, though Mary and everybody … they just tried to talk me into it with me saying “No way, no way.” And for about two-and-a-half months, I was fine, until … I’d been a fishing guide since age fourteen, and it was getting towards spring, and I was getting my boat ready and was working on that. And I reached down to pick up a big battery for my boat: the starter on the motor. And when I reached down, I must have grabbed it wrong because I felt the muscles in my lower back just go rip. And I’m telling you, I set that battery down. I waddled out to my truck, went up to the family doctor. He didn’t give me Percocet but another drug almost as powerful, and it was even more powerful because I would just take an extra pill. And I was right back on the stuff!

  Then I ended up having to go in for more surgery on my leg from the farm accident. They had to realign my bones. Of course I didn’t tell the doctor there I’d been on all these drugs, so he gave me Vicodin, which is an awful darned good drug. But he kept saying, “Gol darn it, Dick,” he says, “your metabolism …” I do have a high metabolism, but he says, “Boy, you really need a lot of pain medication to get your pain level under control.” I said, “Yeah.” “I can’t figure it out.” Well, because my tolerance level was so high. So now I was on some drugs from him, the Vicodin, but of course I didn’t tell him about the doctor back home I was getting some pills from. And at that time, my dad calls me. By now, in my thirties, my dad and I had become best friends, and he’s sober and calls me. He’d moved away to Michigan where he and my stepmother had bought a place on Lake Huron, ’cause my dad loved perch fishing. We would talk a couple of times a week. When he phoned, I could tell something was wrong. He’d been having some stomach pains, and he went into the doctor’s, and they found a big tumor. They suspected pancreatic cancer, and that’s what it was. So my dad said, “Gosh, I’d sure like you to be here when I have surgery.” So I drove up there, and by this time, my family doctor … I wasn’t getting any more pills from him … but the surgeon who did the operation on my leg was giving me the Vicodin. So I had some Vicodin and went down and out to my dad’s, and he had about thirteen hours of surgery. I was starting to get low on Vico
din, so one night about one o’clock in the morning, I’m thinking, “Well, my dad’s in the hospital.” You know, we get so selfish we don’t think about anyone but ourselves, so I thought, “My gosh, my dad, if he needs pain medications, they have these in the hospital. They’ll give it to him there.” Of course I didn’t think, “What happens to him when he gets home and needs the medicine?”

  So I snuck out of bed that night. Their bathroom was a separate entity. It wasn’t in their bedroom. I thought, “My dad’s had stomach pains for a couple of months now. I bet he has some painkillers.” I opened up that honkin’ drawer of that medicine cabinet, and there was the unopened bottle of a hundred Vicodin—even stronger than what I was on. I thought they wouldn’t miss a few pills. By the time I left a few days later, you could see the bottom of the pill bottle.

  God, I get back home and am just really using, abusing Vicodin now. I went to another doctor that I kind of knew from fishing, had him on a guide trip, and said, “Gosh, it must be compensating for my knee ’cause now my back’s starting to bother me.” And it was a little bit. It wasn’t bothering me that bad, but it was bothering me. So now he started giving me some Percocet. Of course I didn’t tell him about the other doctor. Pretty soon the Vicodin doctor says, “You’ve had plenty now.” But I still had this other supply. After a week he said, “Gosh, I need to send you to a back specialist, ’cause, you know.” So he sent me to this doctor. I didn’t tell him I was on the Percocet, knew how to play it from day one. The doctor said, “Dick, I’m going to put you on a drug called Percocet, but you’ll be on it for at the most fifteen days. It’s very addictive. The last thing I want to happen is you become addicted to the stuff.” “Aw yeah, I don’t want that to happen.” I was so addicted to the stuff! “And we need to get to the bottom of your problem.” And so I was back, getting the pills from him. And then my dad … they thought they got the cancer, but by May of 1996, my dad called and said, “It’s back and it’s all over now, and they’ve given me a couple of months to live.” At this point now we’re insecure financially. The business we had wasn’t doing real well. Our son, Andrew, whom we adopted from Honduras, was having a lot of issues, mental problems. Instead of dealing with things in a positive way as I always had, I was starting to take pills to forget about the problems I was having at home. It started getting real bad. Then in early July of ’96, my sister called and said, “Dick, the hospice people say Dad’s only seventy-two hours to live. You need to get out here right away.”

  It was a Thursday afternoon. The only doctor giving me drugs now was this back doctor, and I was just about out. I jumped into my vehicle and drove to Fargo, North Dakota, where his office was, and got there late in the afternoon, and said to the gal up front, “Gosh, I have to get a prescription for Percocet from Dr. Thomas ’cause I’m going to my dad’s. He’s dying and I need to get there.” She said, “I’m sorry but he’s out until next Tuesday.” I said, “What about his assistant?” “Well, he’s at a conference, I’m sorry.” I walked out of there not knowing where to turn. It was clear no other doctor around was going to give me anything. Then all of a sudden I recalled a week before, he had given me a referral to a pain management doctor. What he did when I was in his office was he tore off one of his prescriptions and turned it over and wrote the name in pencil on the back with a phone number. I had that in my wallet. I took it out and opened it up, stared at the front, here it all was, his name on there, his DEA [Drug Enforcement Administration] address. And I went to a copy store in town, and to the furthest away copier, and ran this through there, and it came out just like the real thing.

  I ran about twenty more copies through, and bought a ruler and sharp little cutting knife, and got into my truck and took that ruler and copied it with a pencil, lined them up, cut them out perfect. When I had them side-by-side, you couldn’t tell the real one from the one that I’d copied. And I drove to the K-Mart store in that town where I was at, where I’d gotten real prescriptions filled, and sat out in my truck, and because I’d had so many prescriptions for so long, I knew how they write. The doctors write different from how you and I do. I sat out there and wrote a prescription. I was shaking so bad, knew that what I was doing was totally wrong, was against all what I was taught growing up, signed my doctor’s name, walked in there knowing I was going to get caught, shaking when I handed it over. I went and hid behind an aisle where the pharmacist couldn’t see me, because it seemed for sure he would push some little button and some police were going to break the doors down.

  The phone never rang. No police ever came in. Pretty soon I saw the bottle of pills sitting out there. I went and paid for them, walked out of there with 60 Percocet. Jumped into my car, drove across the parking lot, across the other road to the other parking lot where there was a Wal-Mart where I’d gotten real prescriptions filled too, pulled the same thing, handed the paper to the pharmacy, and pretty soon there were 60 more I’d paid for. Now I had 120. I pulled out onto the highway to return an hour to my home in Twin Lakes and I see a Target store—“I bet they have a pharmacy in there!” Now I’m cocky, thinking this is easy. Pulled in, wrote another prescription, walked in there, nervous but not as nervous, and handed it to him. He filled it. Now I had 180. I get back into my home in Twin Lakes, pull into our family pharmacy, and before I did, I ordered a prescription. Honest to goodness, I walked in there and handed the pharmacist that paper! In my mind, it was like I had come right from the doctor! And I sat there and BS’d with the pharmacist, and he filled it all and I walked out. Now I had 240 Percocet, and it was like A-OK because I made a deal with God. I said, “God, if you just let me get through this until my dad dies and we get him buried, I promise you I’ll get help.” And once I made that deal with God, in my mind it was A-OK.

  The next day, a Friday morning, I left for Michigan. I arrived that night. My dad died on Tuesday. We buried my dad on Saturday. When I left the church to go back home, 240 Percocet were gone. In eight days they were gone. And I lied to my stepmother. I said, “I think my pills are at your house.” ’Cause my dad got buried in his hometown, and where they lived was a hundred miles distant, and I had to go through that town to get back home to Minnesota. I said, “Could I stop and get that?” She said, “Oh yeah, but the doors are locked. Ask the neighbor for the key.”

  My dad had been in so much pain. He had morphine going down his mouth and morphine patches. There were bound to be all kinds of narcotics. I went and ransacked my folks’ house. Opening drawers and going through everything, but I could not find anything. And my two younger sisters who knew something was going on with me, just knew—I don’t think my dad had died five minutes and they got rid of every narcotic pain medication there was. So I jumped in my truck and came to the first town with a pharmacy and said, “Will you take a prescription from a doctor in North Dakota?” “No. Sorry, he has no license here.” So I drove like a maniac to northern Wisconsin. Same thing. No. I get into Duluth, Minnesota, about eleven o’clock at night and drove all over town looking for a pharmacy, and finally found one that’s open and write a prescription. The pharmacist fills it and I get back in my truck and said, “God, I know I promised you I’d get help. But jeepers, my dad just died. You knew we just buried him today. Once this bottle is gone, I promise you I’ll get help.” Well, what alcoholic or addict doesn’t say that? One last drink or joint and I’m getting help. Of course, once that bottle was about done I said, “God, here’s the deal. There is no deal.” I said, “I’m bummed out about my dad. I’m bummed out about what’s happening at home. I need this stuff.”

  Now I was in full bore. I started writing prescriptions, not just for Percocet but also for Demerol and Valium, and because I was taking so many, I knew I couldn’t go to the same pharmacy often, so I kept track in a little book with my own code. These little towns along this main highway that went to Fargo were small dinky towns, most of them with a ma-and-pop pharmacy where I would stop. I had an account at every single one. And I knew when to go back ’cau
se I could look at my record, so they didn’t get wise to it. And I was totally out of control! My whole world revolved around taking the pills and getting the pills and making sure nobody saw me. I’d hide them all up under my dash. Nobody ever questioned me ’cause I made sure. We had a bait-and-tackle shop at the time in our town, and I’d go in, open the door deliberately. I’d always be on time and extra careful to make sure nobody would say, “Gee, what’s wrong with him?” When talking to customers, before I said something, I thought through each word. And I would pronounce, almost overpronounce, not to slur. Walking, too, I concentrated and told myself, “Okay, Dick, one foot in front of the other.” When I drove my car down the road, I did not exceed the speed limit, put two hands on the wheel, ’cause the last thing you want is to get pulled over for something. But the people I put in harm’s way in my vehicle! I was taking people on guide trips, but there, too, nobody ever said, “Jeez, what’s wrong with you?” I mean I hid it really well.

  Before I’d get home, I’d take my last multiple of pills. Once I sat down at night, I was knocked out. Mary was getting real perturbed, and my son, Andy, would say, “What’s the matter with you, Pop?” “Aw, I’m just working a lot and I’m really tired.” Finally one night Mary says, “You think you could keep your eyes open long enough to watch a couple of movies with your son and me?” So I forced myself just so as not to get caught. The next morning Mary says, “On your way into town, why don’t you drive by the video store when you drop Andy off?” That afternoon she called and said, “I know you don’t have a guide trip ’cause of the bad weather. That was sure fun last night. Why don’t you drive by and pick up a couple more.” So I went to the video store and spent about a half hour looking for a couple of videos, and grabbed two I’d heard were supposed to be pretty good. I get home and walk in the house and say, “Here are the movies.” And Mary says, “What’d you get?” And I answer, “I don’t know, I’ve heard they’re supposed to be pretty good. That’s what somebody was telling me.” And she looked at them, and all of a sudden her face got as white as a ghost and her jawbone hit the floor. I said, “What the heck’s wrong with you?” “Why Dick, we just watched these last night.” I couldn’t even remember!