Medicine Mishap Makes Mischief
Note: This was written before our dog Beowulf passed away last July.
Most people over the age of fifty can testify that growing old sucks. I mean, older. Growing older sucks.
One of the things that sucks is medication. Now, a person can avoid going on a lot of medicine by staying fit, eating right, exercising, meditation, yoga ... you know, all that stuff you didn't want to do, even before you could predict the weather with your knees.
Of all those things, the only one I came close to doing regularly was exercise, if by exercise you mean walking. I always loved to take hikes, and walks, the main difference being how far from civilization you are. I was going to say you could define hiking as walking on very uneven ground, but I've been on some sidewalks that made me think I was returning the One True Ring to Mount Doom.
(Why would someone name a mountain Doom, anyway? Is that where they met their future ex?)
You can see some neat things on hikes, though.
The walking by itself wasn't very helpful. First I had to take medicine for my cholesterol, which is a reaction to the human desire to intake things that are bad for you. Apparently there's a thin line between cream-filled donuts and ingesting high-test gasoline. My drug of choice is chocolate, which is the cocaine of foods. I never tried sniffing it through a straw, though.
Maybe next vacation.
Then they put me on a stress pill because of my job, which I couldn't quit because I had to pay for the stress pill.
Then, I discovered I had high blood pressure--while waiting to have a colonoscopy.
Well, duh. Of course I did--a whole room full of people were about to send a sewer router into a place where stuff's only suppose to come out. Just the same, I ended up on a pill to keep my blood pressure numbers below the height of the Empire State building. (In meters. Look it up, I'm not your accountant.)
Then my prostate blew up like a Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon.
Eventually an entire shelf in the medicine cabinet was filled with drugs, and not one of them a fun drug. This doesn't include pain relievers ... we have another shelf for them. It seemed a good time for some kind of organization. Luckily, like many men who own homes, I had several stacks of empty cardboard boxes laying around.
No, I don't know why, but apparently it's a thing.
So I liberated a small cardboard box and put it on my desk, where I could spend half an hour every morning taking my meds without disturbing my wife. Well, she's disturbed by all the empty boxes, but never mind.
At about the same time, our dog fell over. Then he continued to fall over. He had developed a nerve related condition called ... well, I can't pronounce it, but we had to rush him to the doggie hospital. He got better, or possibly I got lopsided and he only looked straight. The vet also prescribed Beowulf medication for joint pain because--well, we grew old together, and it was his time. Emily left his bottle of meds where she could easily find it.
On my desk.
"Since you started feeding me those strange hot dogs I've been seeing ... strange things."
When I get home from work I race around in a half-unconscious state, trying to get all my 6 a.m. stuff done so I can go to bed and pretend it's night. (See above about stressful jobs.) The meds are an important thing, of course, although unlike Beowulf I don't get mine inside a hot dog. Lucky dog. I mean the dog, not the dog. The meat one. The other meat one. Never mind.
Trying to do three or four things at once, I got one of his pills, filled a cup with water for my pills, walked into the kitchen for a hot dog, then back to the desk where I discovered, of course, that I had swallowed the dog's pill.
The dog's pill is a narcotic.
Now, I should have done what Emily later said I should have done: Called the vet. "Hi, I took our dog's medication ... well, yes, I am a dumbass, but that's not why I called."
But I didn't want a bunch of people laughing at my dumbassery. At least, not until I could get a blog out of it.
Instead, I stayed up to gauge what kind of reaction it had on me. Let me assure you--it did have a reaction. It was, in fact, the same reaction I used to have to drinking alcohol, and illustrates the reason why I don't bother with illegal drugs.
I felt weird. I got drowsy. Then I fell asleep. Then I slept for a long, long time.
"So, listen ... since you got to try mine, do I get to try yours?"
It's the same thing that happens when I take melatonin, and that's perfectly legal. It just happened faster, and I didn't have the nightmares. I get half my best stories from nightmares.
So, now I can say I know how the dog feels, except that I can't lick my private parts--and my back is too stiff for that, anyway. Maybe, someday, some doctor will put me on a pill like that for some age-related discomfort I haven't even though of yet. If that happens, hey--the side effects from the other pills will no longer bother me.
I'll sleep through them.
Another note: Ironically, my doctor did, indeed, respond to my increasing chronic pain by putting me on the exact same med Beowulf was on.
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