There’s a pill for
everything, you know. Not that that puts pharmaceuticals in any special
category. There’s an anything for everything—just a click away. Still, all
those meds you see advertised on TV, targeted particularly to people who look
to be about my age, people who are “having trouble” breathing or peeing or
digesting or remembering. It’s become a cliché: all old people do is take
pills.
Well,
that ain’t me. I have no prescriptions and take no medications. At least that’s
what I say every time I fill out medical history forms. In fact, I’m just about
a perfect human specimen, according to such documents, and I’m generally able
to hold on to the notion that when I fill out these forms I’m conveying the spirit
of the truth if not all the boring minutiae.
Then my knee started hurting. Karma, you have to figure.
Since no injury could be more symptomatic of mortality than—ouch!—all of a
sudden, for no reason in the world except to throw it in your face, your goddamn
knee goes out on you.
But we’ve all had these little tweaks, little yips in
muscle or tendon, foot, knee, elbow or shoulder. We’ve all made the lame joke
about how we don’t seem to get over them quite as fast these days. That’s all
this was, and I waited it out like a man. Iced it, elevated it, tried to stay
off of it. But it’s hard to walk on one knee, and it didn’t get any better. I
went to the orthopaediatrician, and now I’m on a pill, an anti-inflammatory. I
get one tiny tablet a day, and it’s all I think about. I don’t know whether to
take it in the morning so it can be working all day, or at night so I can look
forward to it all day. Just like a junkie—except maybe with different delusions
about the paradise that beckons. I just want my knee back.
My addiction to this pill made me start thinking about
all the other pills I take. Two of them, I suppose, fall into the category of
supplements, but I take them with fanatical devotion. One is fish oil, or Omega
3, or whatever it’s called, and I’m convinced it helps control my cholesterol,
which tends to drift upward. The other is magnesium, the purpose of which need
not be mentioned. Both, of course, are perfect metonyms for the universal
syndrome we call aging.
OK. Full disclosure. About that other pill: Do I use it? Heck yeah. I call it my “happy pill,” and
I’m taking about hydrocodon. Bro: I’m telling you. It’s the way to go. It’s the
only pill out there that delivers the satisfaction of assembling a piece of
Ikea furniture without blowing your head off. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t abuse
this drug or possess it illegally. But if I happen to luck into a
prescription—for some minor surgery, say—I’m not returning the leftovers.
Oh, you thought I meant that one. All I can say about that
one is make sure you have the insurance.
So okay, maybe I’ve been in denial. Maybe it’s time to
give it up, to let truth ring, to say the words.
Yes! I’m old and I take my pills.
But
I ain’t changing how I fill out those forms.
