She stood before the room rolling a pink box in her hands. “This box contains two doses in case the first one doesn’t work.” The presenter, unexpectedly named Lyric, oozed compassion, a solemn vibe. Overdosing is serious business. 

I had this training once before, that guy was a comedian. His unboxing bit went like this: “Remember the scene in Pulp Fiction where they stab that giant syringe into Uma Thurman’s chest?” We all laughed, giving side glances around the room to see if anyone else looked nervous.

As a library, a principal hangout for my town’s tiny homeless population, we’re a likely spot for an overdose. Not terribly likely, though, in the six years I’ve worked here, I’ve only heard of one overdose. This happened before we had Narcan onsite. Narcan is the opioid overdose remedy Lyric was teaching us about. The EMTs took care of that overdose. The guy was breathing as they wheeled him out.

From the pink box Lyric pulled a nasal spray contraption. “One squirt in one nostril. Give it a minute. If it doesn’t work, use the second container in the other nostril.” Hands around the room shot up. “I don’t know why we switch nostrils, we just do.” She’s an administrator, not a medical professional.

“There is no overdose look. It could be anyone. A guy in a suit. A lady in a skirt. If they’re unconscious, try Narcan first.” I thought of my college friend Mark. I thought of myself. Human nature, between the two of us, people would have guessed me. Mark looked clean cut, preppy. I favored torn jeans and sleeveless band tees.

As she spoke, I licked my lips, wiped them dry and licked them again. I opened my eyes wide and blew my breath across them. I crushed my eyes together making a fist with my face, a grotesque grimace. These are my tics. My uncontrollable Tourette movements. They worsen when I’m uncomfortable. This talk of overdoses made me uncomfortable.

Mark is dead. He didn’t die from an overdose, but the improbability of that isn’t lost on me. His lungs failed. Not from drugs, but smoking, thirty years, two packs a day—40 cigarettes X 365 days X 30 years = 438,000 reasons to die young.

The longer I stay sober, the more I regret my past. I say ‘stay sober’ like it’s a challenge. I have no desire to drink or use any drugs—not even caffeine. My odds of overdosing equal zero. As a young adult, my attitude differed. I drank beyond excess. I gobbled whatever pill anyone handed to me.

Lyric continued her presentation, “After you administer the dose, move away. The person will often wake up violent.” My stomach sank. I felt nauseous, anxious. I believe the word is triggered. I wondered if anyone else in the room found this discussion upsetting, hitting so close to home. I wondered if my coworkers could see my ticcing. I sat in the front row. I wondered if Lyric saw; I wondered what she thought. As she spoke, it dawned on me, I dodged a bullet, countless times.

At the start of my junior year of college, Mark returned to school with a giant plastic bottle filled with one thousand Darvon pills—a opioid pain reliever that has since been banned in the United States due to a high risk of overdose. He found them in his grandmother’s linen closet. She was a nurse. Was she an addict? Regardless, the stash was now his.

I’ll never know why Mark didn’t overdose. He took the pills two, then three, then five at a time. Around campus he became known as Maaarrrk, said with a deep, warbly, slowed down voice. On the night after midterm exams, I bailed on party plans because of a terrible headache. Mark showed up at my door and told me that three Darvons would fix me right up.

After taking the pills and downing several beers, my friends dragged me around blacked out for the rest of the night from one party to the next. Weeks later, I saw a photo someone took of me that night. Pale and vacant, nothing going on behind my eyes. Lights on, but nobody home. I’m not sure why I survived.

This and similar stories replayed through my mind as my coworkers asked Lyric various Narcan related questions. When the meeting ended, I went home sick, too agitated, too twitchy with Tourette to concentrate on my work. I crawled into bed and slept like dead for hours.

A week later, this is still bugging me. With the prevalence of easily available and powerful opioids, the Marks of the world don’t stand a chance. I think it’s awesome that people like Lyric are distributing Narcan throughout my county. I find it highly unlikely that anyone in my family would ever overdose on opioids, but I’m happy to have the remedy in my home. I’m doubly happy to have it in the library where an overdose seems inevitable.

A lot of research is ongoing with compounds like the weight-loss drug Ozempic to reduce the draw of addiction. Maybe one day, overdoses will be a thing of the past. In the meantime, we all should hunt down one of those pink boxes to keep nearby.

Author’s note: Many people with Tourette syndrome also struggle with substance abuse.