Desperate Remedies

“Owen, I'm sorry, but I cannot give you morphine or... oxycodone... for a simple headache.”

Not “simple.” CHRONIC. Why does he have to minimise it. And why does he make oxycodone sound like it's heroin.

What was the point in seeing a doctor if they couldn't give you what you asked for. He told me I would have to keep relying on the Co Codamol, which was about as effective as a few Smarties.

He just wouldn't listen to reason. Meanwhile, my head is fucking pounding. The fact I'm holding my head with both hands as I sit in his office seems to make no difference to him.

“And try to reduce your stress levels, Owen. Stress can be a trigger for bad headaches.”

Here we go. I know he's about to launch into...

ANOTHER OFFER OF REFERRAL TO THE MENTAL HEALTH TEAMS

Just as I predicted. That was about the fourth time this year. And for about the fourth time this year, I declined. What was a mental health team going to do for my headaches? I didn't want to talk about why I thought my head hurt all the time, I wanted drugs that were strong enough to kill it off. Why was this such a big ask? I'm not some junkie, not even close. So why is he being so withholding. If more doctors gave patients the meds they needed, maybe the mental health services in this country wouldn't be so overloaded.

“Right. Thanks a lot doc.”

I stand, and walk out of his office. I'm fed up that I wasn't given what I wanted, fed up that I can't afford to buy what I'm after on the street, and also fed up with myself for not being able to convince him that I did in fact need a supply of stronger opiates to relieve my poor head. I know that other people get their doctors to write scripts for anything, because they've learned how to do this. There's a definite way to train your doctor to become your personal drug dealer, but I haven't learned it yet, and nobody is sharing any tips with me, either.

I'm just outside the surgery, standing on the grassy knoll, and I reach into my back pocket and take another two Co Codamols, knowing full well they won't work, but taking them anyway. Just in case they work a little bit.

I start to make my way back to the flat. I only live about three kilometres from the surgery, and I haven't got a car. It's another cloudy, dismal day, and even though I'm wearing my quilted bomber jacket, the cold winter air is penetrating right through, making my head even worse. My eyes have also gone sore.

BACK AT THE FLAT

As I make my way up the drive to my front door, Stupid, the neighbour's labrodour (real name Buster, but Stupid suits him better), starts barking at me through the front window, as he always does. Always such a warm welcome when I get home. I can see his bobbling head poking through the partially open blinds.

"I reckon you could use a shock collar, Stupid."

Maybe I'll buy him one for Christmas.

Sorry. If I sound annoyed, it's because I am. For the record, I haven't got anything against dogs per se, but has he not worked out, after four years, that I'm not some intruder? Does my neighbour not tell him off for barking at me? Apparently not.

I go into my kitchen, and switch on the kettle. The plan is to make myself a hot drink, then retreat to my bedroom and have a lie down.

So, what's going on with my head. Well, I started having bad headaches around three years ago, shortly after I turned 36. Cluster type headaches that would come on at random, last for three to five days, then finally subside. But they would always come back soon enough. I'd estimated how often I suffered, and it averaged around 18 days out of every month. That equals 216 days out of the year, which led me to conclude that my quality of life was sensationally poor. Worse than some cancer patients, who undoubtedly had more better days than I did.

The first year these headaches landed, my doc had arranged for a few tests to try and figure out what was going on, and I had those tests, but they found nothing going on. This is why he put it down to stress.

IF YOU CAN'T FIGURE OUT WHAT IT IS, JUST LABEL IT STRESS

I didn't think it was just stress. But then, what do I know. Anyway, why was the cause so bloody relevant? What was relevant was my level of suffering. Something my doc just didn't seem to acknowledge. Did I need a brain tumour to get taken seriously?

Well, if my doc was just going to leave me to suffer because a few tests couldn't manage to find the culprit, it was only a natural progression for me to start considering euthanasia.

I made myself a milky coffee, and brought it with me to the bedroom. No, in spite of my head pounding, I wasn't just going to lie down. I was going to sit up in bed, on my laptop, and contact the very people who could give me what I wanted.

I took a few sips of my drink, then set it down on the bedside table and Googled euthanasia for the email address of Dignitas, who I'd already heard of, and sent them an enquiry asking if I could apply to end my suffering. I explained to them how I was left in excruciating pain on a regular basis from a condition with no known cure, and that my quality of life was next to nothing. I was quite pleased with what I had written – and I had managed it in spite of the headache, although it seemed to come on even stronger once I finished. Then I had my nap.

A FEW WEEKS LATER

The people from Dignitas emailed me back today with an application form, as well as a document with information on what conditions would qualify me.

I skimmed over the document, and one bit read “...suffering from a chronic, incurable illness that leaves you in severe pain the majority of days and which has severely impacted your quality of life...”

Well, that had my name written all over it. That was all I needed to know. I eagerly completed the application and sent it back to them.

You know, euthanasia wasn't such a horrible thing. There were far worse ways to die. I also had no interest in being old. I was already pushing 40, and that was bad enough. I couldn't imagine being, say, 70 years of age, struggling to move about, and worse, the wholly nightmarish prospect of needing other people to look after me.

ONE MONTH LATER

It took them around a month to get back to me. When I saw the email, I actually felt a tinge of excitement. I expected they would make me aware of the costs involved, and all the logistics necessary in order to get from my flat in Pattingham Road to their little building in Switzerland.

Yes, the wheels were in motion now.

I opened up the email. It read “Dear Mr. Graye, Thank you for your application for euthanasia. We have read through it, and have carefully considered your situation and feelings. Unfortunately, we don't feel that your health issues are serious enough at this time to warrant such a measure. However, should your health deterioriate further, we would be able to reassess your application. We sincerely hope that you are able to get your issues resolved so that your quality of life improves. Kindest regards...”

FOR FUCKS SAKE. All that effort on my part, for nothing.

It was clear that nobody was taking me seriously.

So, it was only natural for me to think to myself

“If you want something done right, you've got to do it yourself.”

If these heartless people wouldn't help me end my suffering, then I could help myself, couldn't I. Why should I be reliant on third parties? I would find a way to permanently rid myself of these headaches, on my own. To hell with the doctor and Dignitas. I didn't need them.

ONE WEEK LATER

I'd been to high school, so I had some knowledge of science and biology. Enough to know that if you starved something of oxygen, you would kill it. So I figured that I could kill the headache if I deprived my head of oxygen. Not long enough to finish myself off, mind, but long enough to murder the headache.

Now I don't like to admit this, and I haven't really told anyone, but I've very recently researched various ways of ending one's life. This is what my incessant headaches, and the callous rejection from Dignitas, have driven me to. I made notes on my laptop based on what I found when I searched it online.

My idea was a slight modification to the “plastic bag over your head” suffocation method. Yes, I would tightly tie a plastic bag over my head, but there would be a straw sticking through it, which would go into my mouth, enabling me to breathe. The theory was that my lungs would get oxygen, but my head would not.

I would wait until my next big cluster fuck headache, and then I would try it.

TWO DAYS LATER

It's 3am on a very early Tuesday morning. I wake up with my vest dampened from sweat, and with an absolutely banging headache, worse than normal.

The plastic bag and the straw are ready and waiting. I switch on my table lamp, nearly falling onto the floor as I reach under the bed frame, and grab them.

I sit myself up, and turn on the telly so I have something to watch as I wait for my headache to be killed off. I then pull the plastic bag over my head, and tie it tightly behind my neck. I then put the straw into the little hole and into my mouth.

I've read that it takes just four minutes or so to be starved of oxygen, so this shouldn't take long. I sit upright watching an episode of Murder By The Sea. Why is middle of the night telly better than daytime telly.

TEN MINUTES LATER

It's not working. My headache is no better.

I take the bag off my head, feeling quite defeated.

I open up my laptop, and comb through my notes to see if anything on there seems more promising. But the list that once impressed me now seems inadequate, which DEpresses me.

I need to up my game.

I let out a giant sigh, close the laptop, take two more co codamols, and switch off the lamp. I lie back down and try to go back to sleep.

A MONTH LATER

I've continued to plod on, my head no better, and I've been feeling particularly low, although not as low as I was a month ago, following the epic fail, and that's because I came up with another, better idea...

ACUPUNCTURE

I knew somebody who swore by it. They used to have chronic back pain, but after several sessions, the pain had gone and they got their life back on track.

The only problem was, one session costs around £45, and I just haven't got the funds. So I've been reading up on how to do it on myself. Acupuncture needles – a pack of 100 – which is more than I would need – only cost around £8. I bought a pack online last week, and I've also watched a few YouTube tutorials specifically on acupuncture for headaches. So I think I'm good. It might be a bit tricky to reach some areas behind my head and neck, but then, how hard can it be.

I feel good about myself knowing that I'm being proactive in trying to ease my suffering.

I picture myself sat down inside a local coffee house with this person, maybe six months on, telling them how I've become headache free, and how much better my life's been because of it.

THE NEXT DAY

It's been snowing and freezing cold for the past few days, and I try not to venture out in bad weather. To me, bad weather is like a bad omen. So I decide that today is a good day for the acupuncture. Stay indoors, and heal myself. I rewatch one of the YouTube tutorials just as a refresher, and then I'm feeling confident and ready.

I lay myself face down on my sofa, and I proceed to stick the first needle into the skin on the back of my neck. Place, then gently tap the end. I know to start on one side, then slowly work my way to the other side. I also know that I'm supposed to position the needles at an angle, rather than straight up, which suits me just fine seeing as I don't know how I would get them perfectly straight anyway.

A few needles in, and this is proving to be easier than I anticipated. I take another needle, stick it in and tap it, then another, then another, until most of my neck is covered. It hurts a few times, but that's to be expected – and that probably means it's working. I imagine that I must look a bit like a porcupine. Too bad I can't really manage a selfie.

Once my neck is done, I place more needles into the back of my head in the same spots it showed in the video. I decide to use a few extra ones for good measure.

I didn't count, but I must have around 30 needles in me now, but the more the better as I've undoubtedly hit more hot spots. I need to lie still and wait half an hour before I take them out. I glance at my watch. 10:21am.

AROUND EIGHT MINUTES IN

I'm around eight minutes in when I hear a commotion outside my flat. I can hear my neighbour shouting, but I can't make out what he's saying. I think to myself

“Sod's law. Neighbour waits until I've got a head full of needles in me, then causes a ruckus outside. Typical.”

Why is he hanging about outside in the cold. Well, at least it gives me something to listen to, because I had forgotten to switch on the radio. I'm facing away from my front window, but I resist the urge to turn my head to try and get a glimpse of whatever's going on. I'm mindful not to move around too much. I know you are supposed to stay still.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER

Police siren. I check my watch. Two minutes remaining.

A minute passes. That will have to do. The needles won't know it's a minute early, will they.

I pull them out, one by one, until my hand can't feel anymore.

I quickly get up because I'm keen to know what's going on. I can see through my front window that the police car is parked diagonally in the middle of the road, blocking traffic.

I head outside without even thinking to put on a coat, and the cold air hits me like a motherfucker.

There is one policeman talking to my neighbour, and another in the middle of the road, but I can't quite work out what they're doing as the police car is blocking my view.

My neighbour says to me “there's been a hit and run, Owen.”

I can now see an elderly man lying in the road, right beside the police car. His face is upturned towards the whitened sky, and he isn't moving.

I'm told that as he was crossing the road, a car ploughed into him and drove off. I asked the policeman if it was a fatality.

“No, but he's unconscious, and hurt. Ambulance will be here shortly.”

He then asked me if I saw anything from inside my flat. I told him no.

But my neighbour had witnessed the entire thing.

I didn't want to miss the ambulance, and the ensuing drama, but I was freezing cold, so I started to make my way back up my drive when

SPLAT

I managed to slip on some ice, and fell backwards, my head hitting hard against the concrete.

My neighbour asked if I was alright.

“I think I'm o -”

I start to get up, but I suddenly black out.

THREE MONTHS LATER

I'm wheelchair bound and can no longer move my legs. It turns out that I missed one single needle, and when I slipped and fell on the ice, it penetrated all the way into the back of my neck, causing irreversible damage to my spinal cord.

I'm still living in my flat, only now, I have a full time carer who looks after me.

And my headaches still plague me more than ever. You'd think that the least I'd get out of this misfortune would be no more headaches. But no. That clearly wasn't in my cards. I now believe I was meant to suffer as much as possible.

But every cloud has a silver lining, right?

The good news is that the old man survived and is doing well, according to my neighbour, who acted as witness and also testified at the trial. He only had a mild concussion, a broken arm and a few broken ribs. No wheelchair for him. I was genuinely happy for him. I really was.

The other bit of good news is that Dignitas have reassessed me, and approved me for euthanasia.

The epic fail has turned into a veritable victory.