“Everybody wants to be in a comic book”: Arizona O’Neill on her debut graphic novel, Opioids & Organs
The writer discusses losing her father to the opioid crisis, the ethics of organ donation and processing grief through artistic expression
When illustrator and writer Arizona O’Neill lost her father to an opioid overdose after a lifetime of addiction, she found herself racked with guilt for allowing his organs to be donated to a society that didn’t value him when he was alive. In her debut graphic novel, Opioids & Organs, out May 19, O’Neill grapples with how she and many other families of those with substance use disorders find themselves pressured by a health care system that has become dependent on the opioid crisis for organs.
To reconcile her grief, O’Neill embarks on a globetrotting investigation into the history of organ donation. Blending memoir and journalism, she illustrates herself and two imaginary companions—Frankenstein’s monster and a leopard gecko named Izzy—travelling from the bohemian counterculture of Montreal to the Catacombs of Paris. We spoke to her about body parts, metaphorical lizards and the meaning of death.
In the book, you’re accompanied by a lizard and Frankenstein’s monster. What’s the story there? When I was a kid, I had a plastic lizard that I put on a string and pulled behind me everywhere I went. They’ve always been a fascination of mine, so when I was trying to figure out how to have a conversation with my inner turmoil, a lizard came to mind. I was picturing my brain, and I imagined a lizard curled up inside of my skull. He captures my anxieties and my tendency toward compulsive research. And classic literature has always been a part of my life, so it felt right for Frankenstein to represent a softer side of me. Also, in a sense, Frankenstein’s monster was the original organ transplant recipient.
What was it like illustrating yourself in moments of intense emotion? I took a lot of reference photos—my camera roll looks absurd. I felt like an actor in a Shakespeare play, sitting alone in my studio, trying to represent agony and invoke pain. But self-portraiture has always been a big part of my practice, so I was already quite familiar with my face.
Your mom, Heather O’Neill, is also a writer. How did she like appearing as a character? She’s my reference for how to write a book and how to be an artist. My entire practice is influenced by how she works. But I’m also a little critical of her in the book. She has this giant lizard on her back, a reference to her traumas and the bad habits she passed down to me. But I think she was very pleased. That’s what I’ve learned: everybody wants to be in a comic book.
Her character tells you to “turn your fixations into art.” Is that something you learned from her? Yes, 100 per cent. I’m the type of person to get intense hyperfixations. When I was young and BBC’s Sherlock was airing, I made it my entire personality. But obsessions can become harmful. From 2015 to 2020, I was fixated on the history of organ transplants, and for those years I was not the life of the party. My mom and I have difficult backgrounds, but bringing that into your art is a healing experience and a way to let it go.
It feels like the book achieves some sort of emotional closure. Did that happen during the writing process? Definitely. The ending of the first draft was incredibly cynical. I hadn’t resolved anything, so I didn’t find closure. I had a theory that I needed to go to the Paris Catacombs and face the physicality of death. My pop culture references for death were always horrifying reanimated corpses, like in The Walking Dead. When I went to the catacombs, I felt the presence of my father even though his body wasn’t there. I was picturing our souls as being intertwined. That’s grief: remembering that the people we miss are with us. I got this sense of calm and clarity, then I went home and rewrote the ending.
What’s next for you? I’m working on another graphic novel. It’s autobiographical, based on my childhood and my parents. And it also takes on history—I’ve been researching the role of step-parents in society and how we got this stereotype of an evil stepmother or stepfather.
This interview has been edited for length and clarity.
Charlie Wagner-Chazalon is Toronto Life’s assistant editor. He has written for Toronto Life and Maclean’s, where he was the assistant digital editor. Originally from Muskoka, he now lives and works in Toronto.
