May you live to be 100 and may you still know your pills.

What a gorgeous day! The humidity broke, finally, the temps are perfect, and I was just about to have brunch when the phone rang. The name didn’t immediately look familiar, but then I had a feeling it was my mother’s pharmacist—it was. And so begins the Saturday pill saga and all the intrigue that goes with it.

Apparently, my 101 year old mother who is virtually blind, refilled her prescription and discovered that the pills she usually takes look different. They were. They were the same color but now were like little twins that could break apart. This happens at times when meds are taken over by different companies. The pharmacist put me on notice: he got a call from my mother and I likely would as well. Because, you see, at this stage of the game no one can be trusted and life has become one big conspiracy theory. And even before we could solve that problem there was another issue: the Friday aide didn’t wash the dishes properly and the Saturday aide got stuck with them. At least he was able to assure me that all was well, correct, and that he deals with this “all the time” and that it is “part of his job.”

So all of this horrid (!) disastrous (!)  stuff set the drama going. Each time there is drama, my mother heads to the phone to call “Sandra.” However, she can’t tell Sandra Simms, the social worker, from Sandra Someone-Else, the agency supervisor who hires the aides. She’s always on the verge of some major complaint. My mother seems to hate people in cycles: she goes from despising to loving depending on the day and the weather.

“This is important, this has to do with my health! There are two pills together!  ” … in the drawer…under a sock … hidden … refilled …” There you go, but you know, this time I said I would call the pharmacist and then call her back because I was going to eat my breakfast. I put myself FIRST. I confirmed, again, with the druggist that she takes a dose of 50, that each half is 25, that she should take the whole thing; and then I called my mother back. (Of course someone didn’t hangup the phone so it was busy for a half an hour.) But, when I finally got through and explained AGAIN, my mother was in better spirits, informed me that she would contact the doctor’s office on Monday and confirm the dosage (that she has been taking for months). (This way she can remain in control.)

And so all of that negative chaos passed, until the next time, when everything and anything can be a trigger.

My mother is 101 years old.
She takes a pill for blood pressure.
She takes a pill for thyroid.
That’s it. That’s better than most people half her age.

Now if only there were a pill for trust.

This series starts here:
Part 1: And The Band Played On … a mother’s life, a daughter’s journey

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