Return Unused Pharmaceuticals to the Drug Store, Not on the Streets
By: Lisa Bradburn
Tags: Health, Drugs, Ethics, This Happened To Me, Medical

Return Unused Pharmaceuticals to the Drug Store, Not on the Streets

I could have made $50,000 and chose not to.

Image By David Smart | Shutterstock

Before my uncle died, Donald amassed two extra-large garbage bags full of narcotics. He had clear vinyl bags of unused liquid morphine, boxes of Fentanyl patches, bottles of Ativan, Scopolamine, and of course, Percocet and Oxycodone. My uncle acquired sizeable quantities of drugs to ease his ever-increasing pain from terminal bone cancer, one of the most severe forms.

Donald wasn’t interested in taking pain medication and lived the majority of his time in denial of his medical condition, until close to the end when the threshold became unbearable. Over six months, his stockpile grew to a considerable size.

Two days before my uncle’s death, the palliative care doctor visited the family farm, where Donald remained throughout his illness. He recognized time was close. After a candid discussion with the doctor, I provided consent for Donald to wear a strong Fentanyl patch knowing in a matter of a few hours he would go into a state where we would never speak again. The decision broke my heart, given the close bond my uncle and I shared.

A few days later, on April 3, 2014, my uncle died. And for a while after Donald’s passing, I believed I had killed him. In reality, all I did was speed up the inevitable.

Image by Dangergirl Photography | The writer with her uncle Donald in 2012

It was mid-April 2014 when I sat at Donald’s farm, looking at the garbage bags. With the number of people at the farm, my first step was to hide the pharmaceuticals until I was less emotional and regained the ability to think with a clear mind. Time progressed, and it dawned on me, no one called to retrieve the narcotics — neither the Cancer Centre, the family doctor, nor the pharmacy. The plethora of drugs had fallen through the cracks of the system.

Up until his late fifties, Donald was a heavy smoker. And toward the end, he struggled to find his breath and required oxygen to sleep. Donald’s family doctor provided enough oxygen canisters to sustain a small army. Given I was his Power of Attorney for health and live-in primary caregiver for the last three months of his life, at times, I felt mental and physical exhaustion.

I’m not going to lie; there were moments in the evening when I sucked back concentrated oxygen to keep myself alert.

During a brief period, I became sleep-deprived and out of sheer frustration, popped Ativan. After this, my body shut down, and sleep took over. The drug messed with my internal clock, and in rapid succession, I halted taking the pills. It took four days to feel normal again, and for my body to stop craving, what I discovered, is a highly addictive drug and a potent benzodiazepine.

Image by Dangergirl Photography | Donald Bradburn, happy times 2012

The garbage bags remained hidden for an entire summer. Sometimes I forgot about them. Other moments, I’d wander past the closet where the narcotics were kept and remember. When the season edged toward fall, I decided to consult a man, who, we’ll call Jake. He had the pulse coupled with connections and provided me with an estimate of 60K (CAD) street value. Jake was willing to take the drugs off my hands, sell them, take a cut, and leave me with 50K.

Fifty-thousand Canadian dollars is a down-payment on a condo. It is a luxurious heli-skiing trip in the Western Rockies. Or the ability to go off the grid and recover from the guilt and pain from Donald’s death.

Fifty-thousand dollars also had the potential to become blood-money. Even if I was an indirect participant, the sale of the narcotics could kill a person and destroy the lives of those around them.

The next day, I drove the two heavy garbage bags to the local drugstore and offloaded the pile onto a stunned pharmacist. After the initial shock wore off, she took the drugs, and with a polite tone, thanked me, her head tilted to the side and mouth slightly open as I jetted off before questions were asked.

My story is familiar. Every day, narcotics are leftover from the death of a loved one. Unrecouped pharmaceuticals, if fallen into the wrong hands, can cause severe addiction or death. Where my story deviates is the sheer amount of drugs I held in my possession.

There is hope. Resources in Canada and the United States offer prescription drug return initiatives with the sole purpose of keeping narcotics off the street.

If you ever find yourself in a similar situation, look beyond the bank account. In this experience, I discovered the boundaries of my values, principals, and morals. Today I’m able to live with myself knowing I made the right decision and most likely spared the lives of people I will never get the chance to meet.

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