Sunday Morning
Mon., May 5, 08:27 AM
Every Sunday morning, for about fifteen years, I have sat and counted pills. When Husband first began taking prescription medication, I used to prepare them for him each morning. It was a single prescription plus his vitamins in those days. Then I bought one of those compartmented boxes, four compartments a day seven days a week. My initial reason was so that I could go away for a week, but it occurred to me that it would be good for him to take the responsibility of taking them by himself.
Of course, I have often said that this was the “child” who didn’t grow up. He skipped them whenever he thought he could get away with it. I reminded him to take them, but I was still letting him do it for himself, even after he had upgraded to five prescriptions plus the aspirin. Then I began finding one or two on the floor. (Yes, his hands are a little shaky; I had no idea he was doing it on purpose.) I’m back to monitoring his pills twice a day.
Nevertheless, this is my Sunday morning job. The prescription bottles are all in a Ziploc® plastic bag, along with a list of what he’s supposed to take when. I don’t think he has ever looked at the list; I set it up in case someone else has to supervise the medications. So I count them out, cut the ones that he is supposed to take half in the morning and half at night, and make sure he has enough for the week. If he doesn’t, I call or fax the pharmacy and order more. (They look forward to my Sunday faxes.) If necessary, I contact the doctor for refills.
Then I have to do my own, which are more vitamins and herbs than prescriptions, but I’m still counting pills. U.D. is generally responsible for her own, though she’s not above asking, “Am I out of B-12?” or whatever.
So this morning I sat down with Husband’s pills, and there were only four prescription bottles. Did I order last week and forget to pick one up? Was this the one I was supposed to call the doctor for? I don’t remember. Usually I leave the empty bottle by the phone, as a reminder. No bottle. Did I put it into my purse to call from work? Not there. I was beginning to feel stupider and stupider. I checked under the furniture in case the cat had been playing with it. I checked the computer to see whether I had done a fax – or left the bottle to remind me about a fax. No darn bottle.
So I did what I should have done in the first place – I called the pharmacy. “Can you check the computer for me? I think I threw away a bottle without calling to renew.” And they checked it – I had not refilled it; they will contact the doctor for me. They even gave me a couple of pills so that Husband will have enough for today and tomorrow.
But now I’m beginning to worry. Was it just a stressful week? Or am I past being able to do this job?
I was so mixed up at this point I almost forgot to watch “Sunday Morning,” with Charles Osgood. It’s the only magazine show I still watch. (I stopped watching the others when they became gossip shows, trying to outdo the tabloids. If they’ve changed back, I don’t care.) It’s 117 years since the Haymarket riots, one of the early labor demonstrations in this country, for the eight-hour workday. And it wasn’t until 1938 that the eight-hour day became law. You may hate working that long – I don’t do it myself anymore – but before that ten- and twelve-hour workdays were common. You were lucky if you only had half a day on Saturday. Now you have to be paid extra for working more than forty hours – unless, of course, you’re a mother. Count your blessings, chickies!
