(Author’s Note: This is the first of three bad experiences with ketamine. I debated on simply titling it bad trip #1, but like the other title better. Has more personal meaning)
I’ll have to do a prequel essay on my psychedelic experiences as a youth, well young man actually. But when the opportunity presented itself to legally try a micro dose of ketamine for chronic pain and depression I jumped at the chance.
Why? Because I knew the power of psychedelics from my exploration with psychedelics at an early age. I realized they have the power to change your whole perspective on the world you live in, your own existence. Those trips where you were at one with the planet, where after you felt more whole, complete and content afterward. Talking to God.
But not all of my experiences were good one. Whatever state of mind you are in at the time will be magnified, so be prepared. Imagery the same. Simply put, negative thoughts plus negative imagery equals negative trip.
Even with the early trips on mushrooms or peyote, I had a guide with me. Someone who knew the experience I sought, and which could be repeated if you understand the journey. Never the same trip twice, but all with the same level of feeling whole again afterward.
So yeah, I was eager to see if ketamine could help re-wire a brain overly consumed by depression and melancholy. When I started the treatments originally I thought I was in a good place really. Mentally and physically.
I had just made the decision to start HRT and finally begin transitioning, whatever the hell that meant. I had lost weight, exercised, and was happy about finally starting the journey to self acceptance. I had two new pups to entertain me.
Ketamine treatments were started in order to help with chronic pain and depression. Just to see if it could help.
This particular visit wasn’t much different than the rest, probably the 10th time. Middle of winter, cold and windy, the icy feel of the lake nearby. A Wednesday during the heart of Covid 19, when this type of treatment opened back up again. Masks were still everywhere, until you were in your private treatment room.
Going downtown at 8:00 in the morning was easy with no traffic, all the offices closed down for the pandemic. A 30 minute ride instead of an hour was wonderful.
My doctor was in a private clinic, the heart of the city really. A large office building, with the prerequisite coffee shop next door. Slush and piles of snow everywhere, piles of litter, the city never really clean until Spring rolls around. One of those cold dirty gray days.
I make it a point of being early for everything, it’s just the way I was raised. Always be on time, and better yet, 5 minutes early. As a smoker I add on an extra 5 minutes so I can fill my lungs with nicotine beforehand. The coffee shop is on the corner, right next door to the clinic. A laneway separating it from the hotel to the south.
The laneway saw little to no traffic, so it was perfect to tuck in out of the north wind, joined by no one except the occasional homeless beggar looking for change. They stand outside the coffee shop, a prime spot to get a bit of coin.
This is when things started to go bad, before I’d even gone through the revolving doors to the clinic.
“Hey man, can you spare one of those?”
A middle-aged man with reddish gray hair and a scarf tied around his head stood before me, pointing to the cigarette. I’d seen him here before, outside the shop looking for a dime or a donut. He always seemed well-groomed though, like someone going to work a construction job in jeans, several sweatshirts. Eyes clear, not the vacant blood red eyes of an addict.
In my mind I gave him a name, Red. Seems to fit, that’s what I’d call him if we worked side by side together.
So yeah, I gave him a smoke, lit it for him to be a gentleman.
That’s when the young kid showed up, came shuffling around the corner. 8:30 and already high on something. Scruffy looking, dirty, and wearing countless flannel shirts and stained blue jeans for warmth. No telling how old he was. 20 maybe? Going on 80.
I noticed his feet. No shoes. The kid had no effing shoes on his feet. Wet, soggy and filthy socks. No telling their true color now, just gray. Except then I noticed the blood stains. Both socks were stained black red where his feet were bleeding. No telling what his feet looked like under the layers of socks, I couldn’t venture a guess, just knew it had to be bad.
I was in shock at the sight, and said to Red, “That kid needs shoes, and maybe a doctor. His feet have to be frozen.”
“Yeah, ” Red replied. “Someone stole his boots while he was passed out the night before. I know a place to take him, that can give him some shoes, but he won’t go. Doesn’t trust a soul. Can’t blame him.”
I needed to do something. There was no way this fellow human being should be suffering like this. I looked at my watch and it was 10 minutes until I was due upstairs.
I couldn’t give them money for shoes, I just had a feeling it would go for something else. A department store was 4 blocks away, I could take him there, but then be really late for my appointment.
I was in panic mode for some reason, torn between the decision to help this poor kid, or be on time for my ketamine treatment.
I opted for the latter.
“Hey listen, I have an appointment upstairs” I told Red, “ but if you have him here at 1:00 when I’m done we’ll go up the street o Winner’s and I’ll buy him a damn pair of shoes. Can you do that for me?”
“I can try, but who knows with the shape he’s in.”
“Have him here, tell him to come back and wait for me.”
I made the wrong decision, one that I still look back on and regret to this day. I went upstairs to be on time for my appointment. Rode the elevator to the 6th floor, and checked in. You sign the usual waivers and led to a small private room for the next 4 hours while treatment takes place.. A reclining chair, a desk and a few small tables. One abstract poster on the wall to my right, a closed window behind me.
A few medical devices were on the table, and a remote camera sat on the desk to monitor your movements, and any stress levels. “ Wave if you need help.”
As I had written earlier, patients are connected to a blood pressure cuff and an oximeter. An IV was inserted to administer the drug, the dose of ketamine delivered over 3- 4 hours. Drip drip drip.
The blood pressure device is set to go off every 15 minutes, which was a really annoying reminder that the world was still spinning while you killed time in your head. The oximeter would signal the staff if your oxygen levels dropped below 90%.
Every 15 minutes the nurse would pop her head in and record the readings. There were many times I simply slept through her intrusion, unaware of her presence. Other times I would try to make small talk, but your mind and mouth are so far disconnected it is simply gibberish. She was used to it.
They tell you when you go in for treatment to think positive thoughts, relax, look for ways inside yourself to help overcome the depression, or the pain.
Obviously don’t go in for treatment regretting that you chose to be on time for your appointment rather than helping a fellow human being. Another traveler in the world who is down on their luck, but someone’s son all the same.
It doesn’t take long for the ketamine to start taking effect. Your whole body seems to open up, but your ability to form tangible thoughts diminishes. You’re lost in thought, just floating inside your mind.
The drug comes in big waves, each growing higher than the last. Like an unending roller coaster, higher and higher, then the pure rush of hurtling straight downward.
Positive thoughts they say. . It was my own fault going in for the treatment when I shouldn’t have. I was in a bad state of mind, and ketamine was making it worse. The more the waves hit the more I felt ashamed for neglecting that kid.
The outcasts from our villages are left to sleep where they can. We have lost our way, the “kind” from mankind seemingly gone forever. I was upset, saddened by our growing apart from each other as humans. Distant and untrusting. Covid made the world harder, more uncaring, more focused on self preservation.
It’s impossible to put your thoughts down while a ketamine treatment is going on. Not on paper or an iPad, impossible to concentrate long enough to make sense. Your time is a blur of imagination, in and out of reality.
This time ketamine did nothing but feed the flames of depression and sadness, growing more with each fall of the roller coaster. I was crying, and the nurse stopped her duties to ask if I was okay. She was used to me crying. But this was one of those times when you’re absolutely not okay, but you nod your head yes, I’m fine. Just crying.
I wondered what that boy’s mom was thinking at this moment. Somebody must love that kid somewhere, or is it so hopeless that he is totally abandoned, that no one cares anymore. He is someone’s son.
I had the opportunity to do something for him, but I did not. This guilt is all I knew. I was ashamed of myself. I wanted this to be over, this treatment session.
Then almost as suddenly as the trip kicks in, the last of the drug is complete, the IV bag now empty. It takes 20 minutes to “come down” after the final drop of drugs have entered your system. To get your legs working correctly, before your mind is able to think clearly again. They take one more blood pressure reading to make sure you’re fine.
I was in a hurry to leave, needing to see if the kid was still there, 4 hours later, right at 1:00 as promised. I shouldn’t have left so soon after, my legs weren’t quite there, my mind still adrift. But it was the time I promised to meet Red outside, to help hopefully.
When I finally made it out the revolving door again, the streets were empty. No one outside the coffee shop, no Red or the kid with the bloody socks. Had they assumed it was another empty promise from a stranger? I’ll never know.
I lit a cigarette and called an Uber.
I should have done something.