I Need My Medicine

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I Need My Medicine.

"How are you?" is a typical and a rather sterile question that everyone asks everyone else when we first see each other each day.  It's come to mean not much of anything.  Do we really care how the other person is?

I'm guilty of it just as much as anyone else.  When I was first getting to know the men and women of the community under a bridge in Kensington, I would say "Hi, (first name), how are you today?"   The most typical answer that I receive has been along the lines of "Not well.  I'm sick.  I need my medicine."  And here's where my lack of understanding due to never being an addicted person myself shined bright like a spotlight on a foggy night...

I would look at each person and ask them what type of cold they had, chest, head, allergies?  Out of the politeness that I've discovered in almost every person in this community, they would respond with,  "No. I'm dope sick and need my medicine."  I still didn't really understand what they meant until just a couple days ago when a member of this community explained through word and example exactly what was meant by this phrase.

I sat down on the sidewalk with one person who was feeling dope sick.  He told me that it had been far too long since his last heroin injection.  Dope sickness can manifest itself differently in different people.  His dope sickness was something like allergy becoming flu.  In the few minutes we sat together, I observed his symptoms going from mild to severe allergy to a headache and nausea.  He apologized in advance for the possible accident he may have in his pants.  "I'll be better as soon as I get my medicine."

He excused himself from our conversation to get his medicine.  I saw him again not even half an hour later and he was completely healed.  All symptoms were gone!  

"All I needed was my medicine." 

I finally got it... At least to a small degree, I finally understand the desperate need of a person trapped in addiction to continue to "need their medicine" to keep from becoming increasingly outrageously physically sick.

What's missing from the above description?

Nowhere did I mention getting high from their drug use.  I sat down with another person on the opposite sidewalk from the above discussion as he prepared four or five packets of heroin for one injection.  As he was doing so with the skill of any R.N. preparing a shot for a patient in a hospital, this man looked at me and said, "Chris, I've built ups such an immunity that I don't get high any more.  I continue to do this to keep from getting sick."  

"I need my medicine."

For some but not all of the lady members of this community, their source of income for their medicine is their body.  One woman told me that to keep from getting sick, she will stand on a street corner or walk around on Kensington Avenue for hours as dope sickness settles in until some 'man' makes an offer.  

"One was an important lawyer who picked me up in his Cadillac, took me to a center city hotel, tied me to the bed, had his way with me, got dressed, untied me and left the room.  I had to use some of the money he gave me for public transit just to get back here to buy my medicine."  

With tears running down my own cheeks just as much as her tears running down her cheeks, I asked: "Why do you do this?"

"I need my medicine."

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Chapter 2: The Compass of Shame

The phrase "I need my medicine" was a gut-punch of a lesson. It stripped away the last of my naïve assumptions, replacing them with a stark reality: addiction, in this context, was not a choice. It was a desperate, constant act of survival. But as I continued to sit under that bridge and on those sidewalks, I began to learn about another kind of sickness—one that was not healed by a syringe or a pill.

I started to notice a pattern in the stories. It was a theme that ran deeper than the physical pain of withdrawal. It was the crushing weight of shame.

I saw it in the way people avoided eye contact, even when telling me their deepest truths. I saw it in the man who, after preparing his shot with surgical precision, lowered his head as he confessed, "I don't get high anymore." That line wasn't just about his tolerance; it was an apology, a defense against the imagined judgment he expected from me. He was telling me, "I'm not doing this for pleasure, so please don't think less of me."

I heard it in the woman's story, her tears a testament not just to the pain of her situation, but to the self-humiliation of it. The lawyer's Cadillac was a symbol of a world she had once known, and the hotel room wasn't just a place of danger; it was a stage for a violation that stripped her of her dignity, leaving her with just enough change for a bus ride back to her shame-filled reality. When she told me, "I need my medicine," it was a physical necessity, but the tears in her eyes spoke to the deeper emotional wound that her medicine could never heal.

Shame is a compass that points inward, convincing you that you are fundamentally flawed, worthless, and undeserving of help. It’s the voice that whispers, "You are a bad person." And for so many in that community, it was shame that kept them from reaching out for help even when it was offered. It was shame that made them believe they were not worthy of a bed, an ID, or a second chance. It was shame that told them that the judgment they saw in my eyes was real, even when my heart ached with empathy.

And so, as I continued to ask, "How are you?" I learned to listen for a different kind of answer. I learned to look past the physical symptoms of dope sickness and see the deeper pain of a heart and soul in turmoil. I realized that to truly help, the first dose of medicine had to be a powerful and unconditional counterpoint to the shame—a simple, loving affirmation that their life matters, no matter what.

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Analysis Addendum: The "Medicine" of Survival

Strategic Objective: To legally reclassify "dope sickness" from a perceived choice into a recognized medical emergency known as Acute Withdrawal Syndrome.

I. The Human Narrative: The High is Gone

In this account, the casual question "How are you?" is met with the stark clinical reality of the streets: "I’m sick. I need my medicine." You witnessed the rapid progression of symptoms from mild allergies to severe nausea and the terrifying threat of losing bodily control.

Most importantly, you documented the man who prepared his injection with "surgical precision" not to chase a high, but to maintain a baseline of human existence. You also bore witness to the horrific "human cost" of this medicine—a woman violated in a hotel room, enduring "self-humiliation" just to afford the ability to not be physically ill. As the man told you: "Chris, I've built up such an immunity that I don't get high anymore. I continue to do this to keep from getting sick."

II. The "Lynne’s Laws" Priority Framework

This blog identifies a critical new pillar for the legislative package:

Pillar One: The Medical Necessity and Parity Act. This is a Foundation Law. It legally defines "Withdrawal" as a life-threatening medical emergency. Under this law, withholding treatment in an ER becomes a violation of medical care mandates.

Pillar Two: The Compassion in Care Mandate. This law mandates "Shame-Free" intake protocols. It requires medical staff to treat the "Compass of Shame" as a clinical symptom of trauma rather than a reason to dismiss a patient.

III. The Professional Tension and Consensus

• The Supportive View: Addiction specialists argue that "dope sickness" is a physiological hijacking. Treating the withdrawal immediately with replacement therapy stops the "sprint" back to the street.

• The Skeptical View: Critics worry that mandating ERs to treat withdrawal encourages drug use or drains hospital resources.

• The Lynne’s Law Resolution: This is a Public Safety law. Treating the sickness in a hospital prevents the crimes and exploitations—like the assault of the woman in the Cadillac—that occur when patients are forced back to the street to survive.

IV. Legislative "Teeth": The Duty to Stabilize

To bypass the "Addicts Lie" prejudice, this law focuses on Objective Physiological Markers. Symptoms such as tremors, rapid heart rate, and vomiting must be recorded. Under Lynne’s Laws, if these markers are present, the hospital has a Non-Discretionary Duty to treat. If they fail to do so, they are held liable for "Harm secondary to neglect."

V. The Prevention Savings

Treating "dope sickness" in an ER provides a massive "Bang for the Buck" for the Commonwealth:

• It reduces Law Enforcement Costs by preventing the survival-based crimes that occur when patients are desperate.

• It reduces Long-term Medical Costs by treating the illness before it turns into advanced infections or "Beba-style" wounds.

VI. The Corrected Path

Under Lynne’s Laws, the woman in your story would never have to step into that Cadillac. Her medical crisis would be managed by the state as a matter of legal right. Her shame would be met with a "loving affirmation" of her worth, and the cycle of exploitation would be broken.

#LynnesLaws

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The Lynne’s Laws: Master Priority List (Ranked by Leverage)

Here is the current hierarchy of the laws we are developing, organized from the most foundational to the most structural.

Priority One: The Medical Necessity and Parity Act. This is the "Master Key." Once withdrawal is legally defined as an "Emergency," hospitals are stripped of the ability to turn people away.

Priority Two: The Clinical Stabilization Act, also known as the Beba Clause. This is a life-saving law that prevents "Hostile Discharges" for patients in physical collapse. It stops the immediate death cycle for patients like Dakota.

Priority Three: The Right to Patient Identity Act. This is a dignity-based law that bans "Addict-Labeling" in medical charts. It forces the system to see the "Attorney" or the "Mother" behind the diagnosis.

Priority Four: The Mandatory Continuity of Care Statute. This is a structural law that mandates a "Warm Handoff" to a detox facility. This clears ER beds and ensures the patient stays on the path to recovery.

Priority Five: The Strict Liability and "Addicts Lie" Bypass. This is an accountability law. It allows families to seek justice based on Objective Medical Records—such as vitals and physical condition—rather than relying on witness testimony that a jury might unfairly dismiss.