I’m talking about Diprivan (propofol). It’s what they use to put you out when you have surgery. Ask me how I know this.
Since 1980, I’ve had twelve surgeries. That’s a dozen, cousin. I’ve survived Diprivan all twelve times. (Obviously.) I know everyone reacts differently, but here’s how it went for me:
Anesthesiologist: We’re going to start some medication through your IV now, Mrs. Fink. Just begin counting backwards from 100, OK?
Next thing I know, I’m waking up in recovery. That’s how fast it puts me out. And for the next several weeks, all I can think about is getting home and going to bed. It stays in my system like it was its job. Ack phooey. Hate the stuff. I don’t know how anyone would voluntarily take it to help them sleep, especially since it’s not supposed to be used outside a controlled surgical environment.
Yet, that’s what they found in Michael Jackson’s house yesterday. I’m sure you’ve seen the interview with the nurse who told MJ that if he took that drug, he “might not wake up the next morning.” No surprise that she feels sick in her soul now. But, according to reports that have surfaced over the last couple of days, you just didn’t say no to Michael. I wish I could remember where I read a quote from someone close to MJ (Brian Oxman, maybe?) who tried to tell Michael he was killing himself with all the drugs. The statement went something like, “Michael shot you a certain look; he didn’t say a word, but you knew that you had better can it or you’re gone.”
I don’t know if it was just spoiled-bratism, or if Michael was simply desperate, addicted and lost. People who are tortured in childhood often live long enough to torture others as adults — at the very least by building up emotional walls made of petrified wood. But that’s analysis for another day.
I still can’t believe he’s gone.
PS – Happy Fourth of July to all my fiends. I am delighted to go to the annual Polk Speed Shop Bash, given by #1 Son and Hannah, this night. Best part: we girls rented Revolutionary Road. Heh.