Portal de Periódicos da CAPES

If the Pioneers Loved Pain Medicine Like We Do!

2009; Lippincott Williams & Wilkins; Volume: 31; Issue: 9 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1097/01.eem.0000360592.33397.3b

1552-3624

Edwin Leap,

Historical Medical Research and Treatments

The wagons were still, as the wind blew from the west. Family after family waited for a word, any sign the journey of their lives was about to begin. Crows circled overhead, and flies buzzed, but no signal came. Children played tag, and weathered trail hands checked and rechecked the harnesses that held oxen to the Conestogas they would pull to Oregon. Women in long dresses fanned themselves, and scouts stumbled out of saloons, kissing pretty girls goodbye till next time, assuming they once again survived the road across the plains and mountains of young America. “What's holding them up, young man?” asked Parson Shealy. The young man he addressed was a helper to Captain Morgan, head of the wagon train. “Same as always,” he said and spit. “Trying to lay up a full supply of Lortab.” “Praise be! My lumbago is terrible!” The parson sat back on his throbbing gluteus, and whispered a prayer of thanks. Everyone knew that the narcotic wagon was the most important wagon of all. Second only to the water supply (which was obviously needed to swallow the treasured pain medication), the drug cart as they called it, would never be left behind. It was guarded at all times by sturdy, trustworthy men who were always diligent, though apt to fall asleep in the saddle from time to time and frequently given to complaints of saddle soreness requiring pain medication. The word passed down the line, and everyone agreed it was worth the wait. They all knew the terrible stories, some published as dime novels in the bustling cities of the East, others told round campfires to frighten small children. Stories of brave explorers who twisted ankles, were shot with arrows, or were attacked by bears — and who had not so much as a Darvocet or Ultram to take for their suffering. Only last year, a train made it two days out of Independence, Missouri, supplied with vast barrels of hastily purchased anti-inflammatories only to discover that every adult on the trip was allergic to aspirin, Motrin, Aleve, Advil, and Toradol. Their moaning could be heard for miles, and back in town, the pharmacies were scenes of chaos for hours.ImageIt just wasn't worth the risk, traveling without enough pain relief. It was said that old Panther Dan, greatest of all the mountain men (called Blue Speck by those who traded with him), had very nearly put his Hawken rifle in his mouth when he realized he was snowbound in the Rockies and that, to his horror, his hidden supply of Fentanyl patches had been deftly lifted by a painted lady back in the Dakotas, who subsequently failed to wake up one morning after a night of debauchery and severe pain. Fortunately, Blue Speck found, on the body of a Cavalry scout who had been scalped, a pouch full of Veterans Affairs Oxycontin that had been overlooked by the Cheyenne who had left their arrows in his body. So it was with a great hurrah that Captain Morgan put his knee on a wagon wheel, and announced, “We have enough drugs for the crossing!” Of course, in hoisting his knee to the wagon wheel, he strained his back, winced, and popped two Demerol into his mouth, washing it down with a swig of the firewater he keep in a flask. “To Oregon!” he cried. The ladies wept, the men cracked whips over the backs of their beasts, and one of the guards of the drug cart snored loudly and fell from his Appaloosa. The first few days were happy ones. The enthusiasm of the company was punctuated by laughter, songs, and drowsiness. The bouncing wagons left everyone uncomfortable, of course, but the daily ration of narcotics made the inherent discomfort bearable. A week out, trouble reared its head as a band of outlaws road into camp, their leader holding pretty Mrs. Lecroy at gunpoint as he asked for prescription drugs. Captain Morgan suspected it was Thick Tongue Bill, a feared highwayman. “Giiivvve ustht thome of yooor Lorrtabs,” he said. “What?” the company asked? “Donnn maaakke me thaaay ittt aggin.” At this, Thick Tongue Bill drifted off to sleep, and dropped the canteen he had been holding as a pistol. His band found themselves at gunpoint, captured by the travelers. “What's your pain scale?” they asked. Each of them, little more than boys, looked to the dirt, and said, “We didn't mean no harm. But it's a 10. Maybe even an 11!” They expected to be hung. But no one had the energy nor indeed even knew where the rope was. Before long the outlaws had received a box of Dilaudid. Everyone agreed that if their pain were really a 10 or 11, they deserved some help. Robbery was hard work. Indeed, thieves had sued the wagon companies for not treating their pain. Captain Morgan knew it wasn't worth the trouble to resist, and, dang it, he could relate. His neck was killing him! Bill and his band road quietly into the darkness, constipated but satisfied by the generosity of these kind, pain-afflicted travelers. The next few weeks were uneventful. The pioneers endured bumps and bruises, thanks to the ministrations of their assorted opiates. But in Chimney Rock, Nebraska, the trip came to a grinding halt as a troop of cavalry ambled sleepily off the trail and made their way into camp, bearing a crate full of government forms. “We've been trying to catch you since you left Independence! Didn't you hear? Most of y'all qualify for disability!” Couples kissed, old folks wept, and children (drowsy from cold medicine) looked up in confusion. Major Medical of the 6th Cavalry looked down from his fine horse, and gave the best news of all: “Being as you qualify for disability, we've got a whole band of folks who will take your wagons west for you while you just take it easy in the back. If you can make it the rest of the way to Fort Laramie, someone else will drive your wagon and work for you! You'll never need work or hurt again!” The families were ecstatic, and Captain Morgan was reflective — another successful crossing with as little pain and effort as possible. The parson whispered a garbled prayer of thanks, and the band traveled on, sleepy and satisfied.