I remember (not fondly) the many evenings while VB was still in treatment, where we’d clear the dinner table and bring out the medications. Vials, tubes and syringes of saline would spread out before us like a great puzzle, and we’d prepare the various cocktails to administer over the next 24 hours. Even VB would help — proving that in Hell, you can still find quality time.
To the present day…where there are five of them on the counter in front of me. One prevents breathing problems. Two are fish oil. One is for allergies. The last — and most recent — a popular medication to deal with pesky triglycerides.
Of course, these aren’t VB’s medications. They are mine.
There it is, staring me in the face — mortality, middle age, the regimen of drugs that we slowly accumulate as we move from the invincibility of youth to the balanced reality of adulthood. Gone are the days where my doctor said to me, “you are the most boring patient I’ve ever had — you’re in perfect health!”
Granted, I have nothing to complain about, and in fact I am in decent shape (except for my general distaste for athletics and my ongoing inability to commit to a yoga regimen). However, I’ve come to the place in life where the “genetic predispositions” can sometimes rear their head and say, “hey, chump — get ready to bring the prescription co-pays!”
I wonder if there’s another way. Perhaps I blow the cobwebs of my bike and get back on it. Perhaps I eat only lettuce and plain boiled chicken for the rest of my life.
I grab my water, sigh, and down the expanded version of my “eternal life cocktail”.