Eh. I'm an an antique Schedule II drug. The literature notes that people with my condition don't seem to end up addicted to said drug (or its pals). Probably because we're just glad to take the edge off the pain. It's already rather potent, as painkillers go, as it previously was given to women in labor.
However, as my condition becomes more severe, a time will come when I will have to "graduate" to something stronger. The end of that choo-choo train looks like fentanyl or something very much like it, assuming I don't just up and die first. I'm glad that there is something there.
A friend of mine, his mother died of the same thing many years ago, when it was poorly understood and largely untreated. She was kept in a distant corner of the house so that the screams were less bothersome. Raving in pain, she would curse his name for not helping her to die. That's what it looks like at the end when there's not enough painkillers.
So I guess if you get your way, can I bunk at your place?
I joke, but only a little. You don't have a lot of skin in this particular game. Consequences are far away, third-order at best. I dunno, maybe listening to someone howling away might bring it home, maybe not.
To someone like me, it looks like someone who won't really be affected at all just trying to yank one of the few solutions I have left away, and for no good reason at all.