December 27th, 2013
Once a week I do a horribly tiresome job. I dole out the 30+ pills I take each day of the week into a compartmentalized plastic tray — morning, noon. evening, and bedtime. It takes only about 38 & 1/2 minutes, but it seems much longer. Some pills are more difficult than others — cholecalciferol (don’t know what it’s for, only that’s it’s small and slippery, causing droppage either on the floor or, worse, in the wrong department of the tray, which makes it difficult to retrieve and place properly), gabapentin (a HUGE pill I take three times a day to combat phantom pain), and prasugrel (a blood thinner, which I wish I didn’t have to take because thin blood means they can’t operate on me. I desperately would like my left knee replaced).
At the outset of each weekly session I have the annoying sensation that I just did this job a few minutes before. This truly messes with my sense of aging because the six days, 23 hours, and 21 & 1/2 minutes of actual living that takes place between the tasks slips my mind entirely. I experience only a dull, repetitive hell wherein plays a horrifying mantra from my Christian Science upbringing, “There is no life, truth, intelligence, nor substance in matter.” Christian Scientists profess to be ennobled and love-charged by such a negation of material pleasures. Well fuck them. That clump of words can only bring a sane person down.
So 7 times 4 equals 28 little plastic doors that must snap shut to avoid a massive pill spill. One of those doors, Thursday Bedtime, is faulty. The snap will not hold, so I place a rubber band around the door at its center and hope the five pills behind that door stay in place. And Sunday Noon holds too solidly. The little ledge that gives your fingernail a point of access has broken off so it takes effort and lock picking expertise to open it up. You didn’t ask for all this detail, I know. It just comes with your Bullseye Rooster subscription.
The entire kit occupies a place beside my bed — on a small, custom built table. I will explain the table to any fan of Per Madsen, the furniture maker responsible. He is a genius, and it’s only too sad that there aren’t more small table fans. The space also holds my earplugs, but they’re not custom. I had a large cup of water crowding the space, but a friend brought a good-sized dog into my room one evening. The dog started drinking the water and knocked the cup over. It happened on a Friday, so there were five days of pills. Some got wet, some didn’t. They all required inspection, though. I know germaphobes who wouldn’t touch a pill that had been possibly splashed by a dog’s tongue. The following night, though, I noticed that one of my earplugs was wet. I looked into the mirror and saw my ugh-freaky face contortion. Why would a micro-drop of dog saliva make me do that? And why, since we’re calling on the crime lab, would there not have been noticeable saliva the night before? These are the things that make me wish I had a woman in bed with me at all times.
I learned to dissect my ambien and oxycodone pills into small pieces (half, quarter, or an eighth of a tablet). I do this in order both to take microdoses when necessary, and when, if the pill creates a high, I want a good feeling to last a bit longer. I checked with a friend who uses these pills. She does the same thing. Also pills which, at first, taste wretched, taste better when you know a good feeling follows — either a high or the relief of pain.
My word count just passed 625 — 5/8ths of the word count I planned to use up tonight. With that I must sign off in order to do my 375 word midnight mantra.