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DMT: The Spirit Molecule: A Doctor's Revolutionary Research into the Biology of Near-Death and Mystical Experiences

Page 14

by Rick Strassman M. D.


  Alex signed in at the nursing desk, where one of the regular ward nurses greeted him.

  “Hi, DMT-22,” she said. “How are you doing?”

  “Fine, although it’s weird being called DMT-22.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. We’re used to it. Here, let me put your ID band on you.”

  She attached this identification to his wrist, then walked Alex down to Room 531.

  At first, we used whatever room happened to be available in the Research Center. It was best to have a quiet one—far from the nurses’ station, away from the bustling kitchen, but not too close to the double doors leading onto 5-East.

  Some days we had little choice about which room we could use, and the setting could be grim. For example, occasionally we had to use a lead-lined room at the very end of the ward designed for patients who were receiving radioactive implants for cancer. Other days we might need to use the “traction room,” where patients stayed who suffered from multiple trauma and fractured bones. A “cage” over the bed provided several convenient access points from which to attach ropes, pulleys, and cables for suspending casted broken limbs. A few volunteers professed that they didn’t mind the cage, but I found it intimidating and disconcerting. After one or two sessions maneuvering around it, I made certain to disassemble this structure before we got started.

  Another room on the same end of the ward was the bone marrow transplant room. Absolutely sanitized, with a ceiling full of high-powered fans and two sets of double doors partitioning off an anteroom, it was a germfree environment where these highly infection-prone patients could remain in relative safety. Thankfully, there were switches with which I could turn off the fans.

  We needed a nicer room. I requested to remodel a room on the ward over which we would have scheduling priority. The budget in my grant from the National Institute on Drug Abuse included funds for this renovation. We chose Room 531.

  This room was square, about fifteen feet to a side, and relatively quiet, being the last one on the north side of the hall. At the end of the hall was the door to a hospital stairwell, and across it, but nearer the stairway, was the lead-lined room. Directly across from Room 531 was the entrance to the bone marrow transplant room, but from our doorway, it was hard to see what was in it.

  We met with the hospital’s clinical engineering department and made several modifications to the room. Carpenters built a cover over the tubes and hoses emerging from the panel behind the bed and a little closet below the sink to hide its pipes. Extra insulation on the top and bottom of the door more efficiently sealed the room from hallway sounds. And, after one particularly unnerving session in which the public address system blared repeatedly from the speaker in the ceiling, the electrician designed a switch, controlled at the nurses’ station, that turned off the room’s speaker.

  We could do little about the bed, because it needed to be a regulation unit, and specially built hospital beds are outrageously expensive. A wooden headboard and footboard added a somewhat more pleasant touch. However, nicer furniture made a big difference: a rocking chair and footrest for me, a comfortable oversized chair for Laura or other research nurses, and two visitors’ chairs.

  My former wife, a tapestry artist, and I pored over dozens of swatches of material for the chairs before finding one that met all our needs. The design needed to be relatively soothing, but not so dull as to dampen or depress the volunteers’ mood and perceptions upon opening their eyes. Another requirement was that it be consistent with the particular type of visual effects wrought by DMT, but not so stimulating that volunteers would be startled or disoriented looking at the furniture in their highly altered state. The best fit was a pleasing blue, subtly multicolored, with speckles, flecks, and patterns embedded within it. A solid light blue carpet and soothing pale blue paint covering the formerly bright white walls were the final pieces of the refurbishing effort.

  These changes to Room 531 nevertheless left several minor, but insurmountable, problems. Because the room now had become almost soundproofed from the outside hall, the ceiling fan seemed louder than ever. Many volunteers paid this no heed, but for others it was an irritant. In addition, the bathroom shared a wall with the shower between our room and the next. When someone used the shower, we could hear it quite well. If that person happened to be ill, their coughs, groans, and cries were audible through the wall.

  Another factor over which we had no control was noise from outside of the hospital. The busy Albuquerque International Airport and a major U.S. Air Force base were only five miles south of the hospital. While flight patterns usually were concentrated south of town, away from the hospital, weather occasionally forced jets to fly overhead. The noise, although buffered by double-paned windows, could be jarring. Sounds from the hospital grounds also could be grating, especially those arising from the trash compactor located right below Room 531’s window.

  Once Alex settled himself into Room 531, the ward nurse who walked him down the hall checked his heart rate, blood pressure, weight, and temperature. Someone from the research kitchen staff came by and asked Alex what he’d like to eat after the study: a snack, late breakfast, early lunch, vegetarian or meat, what to drink. We rarely received complaints about the food!

  Laura was the research nurse working with us that day. She arrived and began the preparations for the low dose. She placed a blue, plastic-lined cloth, about fourteen inches square, under Alex’s arm. This cloth protects the bed linens from the antiseptic iodine solution. The cloth also absorbs any blood that might drip out of the intravenous line before she can cap it. She began scrubbing his forearm skin over the vein in which she was to insert the intravenous line with the antiseptic. She placed the blood pressure cuff on the other arm and took another heart rate and blood pressure reading.

  On these first non-blind DMT test days, we drew no blood. Rather, a single small needle was all we needed for administering DMT. However, if we were going to take blood samples, Laura would insert another more complicated apparatus into the other arm. This setup consisted of several extra pieces of plastic “plumbing” that permitted drawing blood into syringes, while at the same time providing a steady drip of sterile saltwater into the vein. After drawing blood, Laura would squirt a little bit of heparin, a blood-thinning drug, into the line to reduce the likelihood of any clots. Clogging of that needle made for a very difficult day, since we were so dependent upon measuring levels of various substances in the blood.

  On blood-drawing days, we had to keep the samples chilled, and for this purpose we would keep a basin filled with ice chips next to the bed. Test tubes waited for transferring blood collected from the syringes. It was best to remove the tops from these vacuum tubes before the study began; otherwise, they made a loud distracting “pop” when opened.

  Finally, there was the rectal probe, or “thermistor.” We wanted to measure temperature several times before, during, and after DMT administration. The least trouble was to have the thermometer in place throughout the session, rather than requiring Alex to actively interact with yet one more piece of equipment. And the most accurate temperature readings are from the rectum. All these factors added up to a rectal probe. Laura inserted it a half-hour before the study, and it stayed in place until we were done. The probe was about an eighth of an inch in diameter; it was made out of rubber-coated wire and was quite flexible. It went in about four to six inches and rarely caused any discomfort, except in those with hemorrhoids. Despite being taped in place, it sometimes slipped out if a volunteer was especially restless during the session. Only Nils refused the rectal probe.

  The thermistor attached to a small portable computer that recorded temperature every minute. We clipped this to the handrail of the bed, and after the session was complete, I downloaded the data directly onto the Research Center’s computers.

  By the time all of these preparations were complete, even for a double-blind blood-drawing day, Alex had been in the room for no more than 20 minutes. We were efficient.

 
I usually arrived on the ward about 30 to 40 minutes before hoping to give the DMT. Asking the admitting nurse at the front desk how Alex seemed gave me the first sense of what the morning might be like. In Room 531, Alex and I exchanged a few pleasantries before I went to pick up the DMT.

  Walking down six flights to the basement, I turned right, making my way down the container-strewn hall. The solid metal pharmacy door was to the left. In bold letters, a sign commanded, “DON’T RING MORE THAN ONCE. PUSH GENTLY AND QUICKLY AFTER THE DOOR UNLOCKS.” I pushed the intercom buzzer. A closed-circuit camera stared down at me.

  There were days when, despite my better judgement, I did buzz more than once—I could wait in the hallway only so long. There also were days when I wasn’t quick enough to push open the door when the lock released, and I had to ring again.

  Inside, a waist-high countertop ran along the length of a narrow antechamber. From it rose a four-foot-high wall of thick glass, probably bullet-proof. Behind the glass stood several busy pharmacists, and beyond them was the storage site for all the hospital’s medications, including the narcotics vault.

  The research pharmacist unlocked the narcotics room, went behind another set of doors, and unlocked the little freezer containing our drugs. He had filled the syringe with the prearranged dose of DMT the previous night. He only capped the syringe, because attaching a needle was cumbersome and potentially dangerous—he might accidentally inject himself with DMT. The drug solution in the syringe was frozen, and I put it in my breast pocket so that it could begin to thaw while I signed various forms.

  Returning to the ward, I told the nurses at the front desk that the injection would take place in about 15 minutes. My warning was intended to help lend a slightly quieter air to the usually very busy ward. They had heard enough strange stories from the volunteers, and sometimes even yells and cries from the study room, to know that something serious was about to begin. They switched off the public address system to Room 531 and awaited my return an hour or so later. I went to the medication room and prepared a syringe full of sterile saltwater for the flush that followed the DMT injection. I fastened a needle to the top of the DMT-containing syringe. Finally, I stuffed a few alcohol swabs into my pocket for use in wiping off the end of the IV tube into which I’d inject Alex’s DMT.

  I reentered Alex’s room and placed the “Session in Progress. Do Not Disturb” sign on the outside of the door. Sometimes even this didn’t work. Once or twice housekeeping staff, accustomed to entering hospital rooms at will, noisily intruded upon sessions. Unexpected phone calls also were not welcome. Making certain the phone was unplugged from the outlet in the wall, I walked around Alex’s bed and took my seat.

  “Here’s the DMT,” I said, pulling out the little syringe from my shirt pocket and placing it on the bed next to Alex’s leg.

  We spent a few minutes catching up on any important news and preparing for the session. While we were talking, I opened up the top drawer of the nightstand near his bed and took out another vial of sterile saltwater. Inserting the needle into the vial, I drew back enough saline to nearly fill the DMT-containing syringe. This additional volume in the syringe made it easier to control the rate of injection. The nurses wanted me to keep the saline vials for this purpose separate from the ones they used. They were afraid that if a drop or two of DMT leaked into one of their vials, it might cause an unwelcome and unexpected “trip” in one of the ward’s other residents.

  Initiating my own ritual while talking and listening, I placed my yellow notepad in a clipboard and wrote down Alex’s DMT number, the date, the protocol number, and the dose. In the left-hand margin, I scribbled a column of minutes at which I would measure blood pressure and heart rate: -30, -1, 2, 5, 10, 15, 30.

  I asked, “Did you have any dreams last night?”

  A volunteer’s dreams the night before a study might give us insights into fears, hopes, and wishes about the upcoming session, or about previous ones. Alex couldn’t recall any.

  I pulled the saltwater-flush syringe and the alcohol swabs out of my pocket, placing them all on the bed next to the DMT solution.

  “Did you take any medications this morning or last night?”

  “No.”

  “What are you doing after today’s session?”

  “I’ve got a few hours of work to do. Then, not too much. Relax, think about tomorrow. Get a good night’s sleep.”

  Sometimes these little visits took the form of brief counseling or therapy sessions. Relationship problems, career or school concerns, spiritual or religious issues raised by participation in this research—all these were important to air before beginning such deep and profound journeying through the DMT realms.

  I started telling Alex what to expect.

  “Today’s DMT dose is small. You might not notice too much from it. But don’t be too blasé. It’s better to be too prepared than caught off-guard. We won’t do much after the DMT’s in you. We’ll sit quietly, be alert, pay attention to you, be available, hold good thoughts and feelings for you. If you need human contact, just put out your hand and someone will take it. If you lose control, we’re here to help. Otherwise, this is your experience, not ours. You’re pretty much on your own.”

  In the first series of DMT studies, I recommended that volunteers close their eyes to start, and open them as effects began fading. Sometimes, however, the shock of the first minute or two of the high-dose DMT experience would cause an almost reflex opening of the eyes in an attempt to orient. This almost always made things worse. The room, already rather forbidding, could take on even more troubling overtones, and the research nurse and I, our visages hopelessly transfigured, did not look much more appealing. Now we placed black eyeshades on all the volunteers at this point in the session. The eyeshades were the soft satin ones airline travelers use, or those who need to sleep during daylight hours. It was difficult finding any at the local drugstores.

  Once this orientation was done, I said, “Spend as much time as you like getting ready. It might help to focus on your breath, how your body feels on the bed. That will start the process of letting go.

  “When you’re ready, let me know. I’ll tell you when it’s about 5 to 10 seconds before the beginning of the injection. I like to start giving the drug when the second hand of my watch is in an easy-to-read position.

  “I’ll now clean off the tubing with a little alcohol swab. Like this. The alcohol will quickly evaporate, so the smell won’t distract you. I’ll now insert the needle into the tubing, but I won’t empty out the DMT. It’s easier for me to have the needle in place beforehand. That way I won’t fumble around trying to fit it in right as the injection should begin.

  “I’ll tell you when I start. It might feel cold, or tingly. Maybe it will burn slightly, or feel a little bubbly; some people describe those sensations. The DMT goes in over 30 seconds. Once it’s all in, I’ll tell you. Then there will be 15 seconds of saltwater flush of the tubing, to make sure all of the DMT gets into you and there’s none left in the line. I’ll tell you when I start and finish the flush, too. Any questions so far?”

  “That’s pretty straightforward.”

  The ebb and flow of tension in the room at this point was always fascinating. Only one of our many volunteers had ever used a recreational drug intravenously before, and no one had taken a psychedelic that way. The novelty of this element itself was sufficient to get all our nerve endings more alert than usual.

  As I described the process to Alex and prepared this small dose, I was thinking ahead to how Alex would negotiate tomorrow’s high dose. However, there was no guarantee that this minor dose might not have some major effects. Several people did drop out after this first session. Others we had to excuse because their blood pressure surpassed our predetermined cutoff point.

  I continued: “Alex, it starts fast. Perhaps even before the injection is done. It can be a little frightening. Do your best to remain alert and relaxed, poised but passive. The effects will peak in a couple of minutes.
Then relax and wait a while until you decide to start talking. It’s tempting to speak right away, but you’ll miss some of the subtle coming-down effects if you don’t wait at least 10 or 15 minutes, even today. So, let’s get started. Are you ready?”

  Alex answered, “Sure, I’m ready.”

  For the deep letting go and relaxing necessary to successfully experience the full effects of DMT, it was best if the volunteers were lying down for the injection. Otherwise, there might be a lot of fussing involved with maneuvering Alex into a more comfortable position as he was losing normal awareness of his body and the rush of psychedelic effects began.

  We adjusted his bed. Some volunteers liked their head a little elevated. A few preferred to have their knees slightly bent, for which we raised that part of the bed or placed a pillow under the knees. We made sure the eyeshades fit loosely but securely.

  A few deep breaths, some adjusting of clothes, arms, legs, feet, and then Alex’s words:

  “Go ahead.”

  “Good. Let’s start in about 5 seconds here. . . . Okay, I’ll start right now.”

  Gently pressing on the plunger of the syringe, I hoped there would be no obstruction, which would indicate a clot or that the needle had worked its way loose out of the vein.

  The syringe was empty at 30 seconds. I pulled it out of the line.

  “The DMT’s in.”

  Using my teeth, I pulled off the cap covering the needle attached to the saltwater syringe. Inserting that needle, I said, “Here’s the flush now.”

  Fifteen seconds later, pulling out that needle: “All right, I’m all done.”

  In addition to familiarizing Alex with the technical details of getting IV DMT on this low-dose day, it was an excellent time to instruct him in filling out the questionnaire. We might spend an hour going over any questions he had about what particular terms or phrases meant. After a few sessions, Alex could complete the questionnaire in 10 minutes.

  Before wrapping up this session, I said to him, “Don’t eat or drink too much tonight. Get a good night’s sleep. Remember to skip breakfast. If you must have coffee, make sure you drink it at least two hours before you come in.”

 

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