Saturday, May 18, 2013
Goldiloxycodone and the Three Doses
We just finished the first week of the summer semester, and Pharmacology is dominating the curriculum at the moment. After finishing the day's studying of terms and graphs like these, I couldn't help but act on a moment of creative writing inspiration. Sorry if it doesn't all make sense - you'd probably have to be a medical professional of some sort to get all of it... Enter my parody of Goldilocks and the Three Bears by Robert Southey:
Goldiloxycodone hobbled as fast as she could away from the three bears’ home, favoring her leg that now had a bleeding bear bite. Her recent attempt at one-upping her cousin’s famous shenanigan was just another in a long line of dismal failures that characterized Goldiloxycodone’s life. Little did she know that she was about embark upon a path that would change her life forever.
Settling down behind an old abandoned shed and sheltering between two metal dumpsters, Goldi broke out the Hello Kitty lunchbox in which she stored her drugs. You see, Goldiloxycodone had gotten into so many altercations with various members of famila Ursidae (who were surprisingly protective of their porridge!) and made enough trips to the ED that she’d developed a bit of a drug problem.
Oxycodone was her vice of choice, playing no small part in her choice of legal self-nomenclature. As she had just scammed the new doc two towns over, her stash was currently fuller than her bleached-blonde curls. Shaking the plastic Easter Eggs she used to disguise her pill hoard (not green... not yellow... BLUE!), she found one that was chock full and began to calculate dosages.
Mental math had always come easily to Goldiloxycodone’s deviously calculating mind, so it was easy as tripping for her to plan out a sustained dosage pattern that would keep her blood plasma concentration in just the right range. Factoring in the metabolic tolerance that she had built up via enzyme induction was no easy feat, but Goldiloxycodone would have been a renowned genius if not for her proclivities toward arson, caustic mocking of others’ answers to bar trivia questions, and overtly expressed desire to become a criminal overlord. Most intellectuals seeking to retain hopes of future publication avoided her like smallpox on the subway.
So Goldiloxycodone ticked off potential drug plans in her brain. No, not number one – that dosage interval is too short; I’d be out of my mind in no time, but with my enzyme count and ripping level of elimination, I’d reach toxicity before I could read the name of my Hispanic-American explorer-child-themed backpack. That dosage plan is too high.
And it can’t be number two – that dosage interval is too long by far. I might get in the therapeutic range, but I want a continuous trip, and I’d be dropping below in between every pill. It’s a balmy night out here, and the IRS just arrested the Big Bad Wolf for some sort of “evasion,” so there’s no reason this can’t last alllll night! Regardless, that dosage plan is to low.
Now let’s see, what about dosage plan number three... This regimen looks adequate, maintaining drug levels in the safe and effective range but never dipping below or reaching toxicity. If I’m careful, I don’t think I’ll even have to break into my purple egg! Goodness, this is turning out to be much less of a disappointment than I thought. Plan number three looks just right!
And so it was that Goldiloxycodone tasted no porridge, slept in no beds, and was never featured in any of Robert Southey’s publications. When she awoke from her stupor five days later with snot crusting her nose and her pinched forearm telling of severe dehydration, she decided that while her math had been spot-on, her judgment was a little impaired as to the definition of “toxicity.” And so, she checked herself into rehab. Six months later, she let her roots grow out, changed her name to Dorothy and moved to Kansas to live with her aunt and uncle on their farm. Sure, there were lots of tornadoes and rumors of “Cardinal Witches,” whatever that meant – but Dorothy longed to make an honest go at wholesome living. As long as there were no monkeys – especially mutant ones. Heavens, how she hated mutant monkeys...
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