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It starts with pain; if I ache before I’ve even gotten out of bed I know that the day is bound to be impossible.
Creakily I pry myself up. The black clouds in my joints and in my mind refuse to break despite a hot shower, putting on clothes, opening up curtains, hearing cheery voices on the radio.
I herd the children downstairs slowly, stiffly. Once the kids are on the move, the physical pain plays in the background while the child-centered annoyances sing a skittish melody. Their actions, which usually are tolerable if not charming (booger passing notwithstanding) are on those days so flipping annoying that I almost can’t wait until it’s time to usher them back upstairs for the night.
A lovely NSAID called nabumetone knocks down the physical pain from a cranky back and a twenty-year-old polka injury (yeah, wanna make something of it?), but it never knocks down the pain enough. Even at the maximum dose of that magical little pill, I hurt all day long.
On a normal day I feel my back and the old polka injury (what, doesn’t everybody have an old polka injury?), but I feel them as if through a thick wool cloth. The pain is muffled. It’s tolerable. It doesn’t slow me down.
On a normal day I get annoyed by the kids’ demands and their whining, but it doesn’t flatten me. I can balance their desires against everything else that must be done without my mind going ’round in circles with the strain of it all.
But on a bad day the pain and the multiple demands blur together into one big unmanageable mess until I ask the question that I’ve learned to ask every time I have one of these hellish days: Did I take my damn medicine?
And I never can remember. I think back to the night before. I retrace my steps. Do I remember filling up a cup with water? Did I pivot to reach the bottle from the cabinet? Did I feel the bitter bite of the pill on my tongue?
It infuriates me that I cannot remember my damn medication.
After another day unable to manage the pain or the emotions, I forced myself to buy one of these at the drugstore. I tried to forget the fact that my grandmother used a box like that. My grandmother used a box like that…when she was eighty, which for those of you keeping track, is double my age.
She needed a pill box at eighty to keep track of multiple pills taken multiple times throughout the day, but her pathetic granddaughter cannot manage one pill a day at forty years old. How embarrassing.
Embarrassing, but better perhaps than the alternative.



