Dealing with Addiction

Balwant first came on the day of the de-addiction camp- he registered, sat there in the new pristine chairs which we had acquired on setting up the new de-addiction unit, the attendant said he had seen him sitting there for a good 40 minutes, then he did a volte face and quietly slipped away.

He gathered courage, built up his motivation and came again 3 months later- we fished out his form where his demographic details had been noted down and I saw him. I asked about the first run- he merely smiled and said he had not had any "afeem" that morning and the gooseflesh and craving became too much plus he got cold feet on seeing me. What would he tell this thin woman doctor- I should have been a man- then maybe he wouldn’t have run, he said? "Well, at least you came back and decided you would see the female doctor- is it as bad as you had imagined?" I smiled.

He became a regular client- his father, an old wisp of a man with grey hair, beard and thick glasses would bring him in- his erring six foot tall son who would quietly come in behind him and get admitted for 15-20 days till the withdrawal symptoms would pass over and he would be ready to go back to work and feed his wife and two kids. He loved them and tried his best. He told me his tales of his trying like countless others from our part of the world to go west- to a better life. He reached Nigeria- caught Hepatitis B there from a Nigerian prostitute- he couldn’t be sure if it was the black one or the white one! How could one tell?

He told me he tried to work and did- for 4-5 months he would stay stable, convince himself he was not going to go back to the damned Injections and Afeem again; then one fine day, he would find his feet taking him to the supplier. He would often become violent then, manic, fight at home. His father would bring him in then- he had stopped his medication which helped stabilise his mood- we would keep him in the hospital alone- his father had to go to work. Other hospitals were more firm about that and wouldn’t keep patients alone- there was always a risk of the patient running away or killing himself.

The second was a boy Deepak, 15 years old, he and his brother had both taken to the white powder- smack- at 15 he would do anything to get it. Then when he had no recourse left he would writhe in pain till his parents unable to see him in agony would get him some. “What can we do?", when I admonished them for giving in, “What can we do?"

We kept them in the ward- the brother, the older one, managed to stay clean after the first attempt for a year- he began working regularly. He came back after a slip after a year and we admitted him again. He stayed off it this time. But the younger one, a smart alec, clever, manipulative, had the staff in the ward wrapped around his finger-he managed to sneak some into the ward- and later made a run for it- the security no match for his scheming. He was a charmer though, good looking, sweet talking and had us all in splits with his jokes.

His parents did all they could - a bit too much- but they were unable to enforce any kind of discipline. He didn't come back to the ward.

Mohan was the third, a forty five year old looking sixty five, mildly handicapped intellectually, epileptic- he came to us because we gave free antiepileptics- he couldn’t afford to go to The Medical College, 6 kilometres away to get that- he didn't have the Rs. 16 required for the trip by bus. I was in charge of Psychiatry but we treated him for aches and pains, his wife got TB of the Lungs and even though treatment was free, she wouldn’t take the medicine and died in the cycle barrow in which he carted her around.

He aged another 5 years during her short illness and heaved a sigh of relief when she died. He had had his hands full trying to give her medication for the hallucinations she had developed in the later stages of her illness.

All three killed themselves in the eighteen months since I had left the hospital. Balwant drank acid and killed himself recently, I was told.

Deepak was supposedly dancing on the railway tracks when he was run over by a train. Suicide?

Mohan’s cycle barrow was stolen by someone- his poor mind already overburdened with life's hardships couldn’t deal with this final loss and he drowned himself.

Someone said, "Well at least his family will live in peace now."
Another, “They weren't doing anyone any good anyway, just causing trouble."

"He should have been in an old age home at 45 itself." was another comment.

I felt a sadness- was it just because I had known them or did this brush with death do that to everyone? Did it really not matter that they had killed themselves? Who all matter then? Do I?