THANKFUL FOR WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN

I catch myself examining the crook of my arms occasionally, staring at
the blue roadmap of veins just beneath the surface of my skin.

Unlike many intravenous drug users, my arms aren't pockmarked with
scars. I never got abscesses, and my track marks -- the line of tiny
puncture wounds left by the needle that scab over and look like ugly
red scratches -- healed without complication. My scars, it seems, are
emotional and spiritual more so than physical.

But the ramifications of shooting up -- heroin, mostly, but plenty of
cocaine and Oxycontin as well -- will live with me for years to come.
I was reminded of that recently when I went to the doctor for a
semi-annual round of tests -- HIV and Hepatitis C.

Within a few days, the results were back -- all negative, just as they
had been the last time I was tested. I didn't think about it much; I
felt fairly confident I was disease-free, but after researching
statistics on the two viruses in connection with intravenous drug use,
I realize I'm one of the lucky ones.

HIV, the virus that causes AIDS, is certainly a possibility with
intravenous drug use. But thanks to the AIDS awareness campaigns of
the 1980s and early 1990s, the public -- even actively using drug
addicts -- has at least a cursory knowledge of the dangers of such
transmission. Still, an estimated one-third of HIV cases in the United
States have been attributed to intravenous drug use.

Hepatitis C is another matter altogether. Not identified until 1989,
it's now the most common chronic bloodborne disease and leading cause
for liver transplantation in the United States. Worldwide, some 200
million people, including nearly 4 million Americans, are infected.

An estimated 10,000 deaths each year in the United States are related
to hepatitis C, but that number is expected to triple in the next few
decades as the infection progresses in people who have yet to show
symptoms. In the United States, hepatitis C is responsible for about
20 percent of cases of acute viral hepatitis, 60 to 70 percent of
chronic hepatitis and 30 percent of cirrhosis -- the final stages of
liver disease -- and liver cancer.

Sharing contaminated needles for drug injection is the most common
method of transmission for hepatitis C today. An IV drug user's
chances of contracting hepatitis C increases with years of drug abuse:
78 percent are estimated to be infected after one year, 83 percent
after five years and 94 percent after 10 or more years of shooting up.
And if you don't shoot up, here's something else to consider -- it can
also be transmitted by sharing contaminated straws used for snorting
cocaine or contaminated pipes used for smoking crack.

I shiver when I read those statistics and think of how fortunate I am.
Not that shooting dope was ever a smart thing, but I'm grateful I
never shared a needle. But I certainly shared spoons on more than one
occasion, and since I couldn't always take my time when shooting up,
I'm sure there were times when I didn't rinse my syringe properly. And
that doesn't even address the fact that bathrooms in bars and gas
stations aren't the cleanest of environments in which to give yourself
a shot.

One of the many blessings recovery gives me today is the ability to
keep from obsessing over the tabs I have to pick up from my past. I
haven't tested positive, and for that I'm grateful, but if I did, the
12-step program of which I'm a member gives me the ability to deal
with whatever comes my way.

Before, even the thought of having a devastating illness would have
been enough of an excuse to get high. I don't have to do that today --
anything I endure, any illness or tragedy or crisis that happens in my
life today -- I can face it clean, without succumbing to my addiction.

More importantly, I care about my health today. In my addiction, I
knew the risks involved with shooting up -- I hadn't forgotten
everything I learned in high school health and biology classes -- but
the terrifying thing was that I just didn't care. The craving, the
overwhelming need to get high, obliterated any thought of safety or
precaution. All that mattered was the next fix, the next bag of dope,
the next shot. I cared about nothing else.

Today, I care for other people, but more importantly, I care for
myself -- enough to go to the doctor and get myself checked out, even
if it might mean I get some bad news. Because just for today, I'm
grateful for the health that I have and the willingness to preserve
it.

Steve Wildsmith is a recovering addict and the Weekend editor for The
Daily Times. His entertainment column and stories appear each Friday
in the Weekend section.