There Is No Other Pill To Take

Every day I wake up around 6:00, notice light beaming through the window, and panic. I forgot to set my alarm. I look at the alarm clock and see that the alarm is armed and waiting. I go back to sleep, for the remaining 45 minutes, despite feeling well-rested.

I get out of bed and walk to the master bathroom, where my prescription sits next to the sink, reminding me that I'm sick and can't be cured. I put one of the pills in my mouth and quickly take several gulps of water. The pills have an acute, metallic taste - it's how aspirin tablets would taste after being dropped into an iron smelt and left to spoil.

The taste of metal disappears after my breakfast. It doesn't return in full force; my mouth gradually develops a different flavor, a dull, general unpleasantness. I have no proof it is truly different than my pre-medication mouth - you don't notice what your mouth tastes like when it does not disgust you - and I can't explain why old mouth was so inoffensive. It's beside the point. I can shake it for a brief time if I chew gum, brush my teeth, or eat, but the unpleasantness always returns.

The last thing I do before I go to sleep is take another pill.

Imagine eating a peanut butter sandwich sans refreshing beverage. Can you feel that? Your mouth is sticky and foul. You're sitting in an office chair at your workstation. The when the chair is raised up, your legs barely clear the desktop, and the chair's arms don't. When the chair is lowered, your arms are at an uncomfortable level, and you can't type properly. You can't stand your own taste and you can't get comfortable, even though you've tried different positions. Right leg folded under. Left leg folded under. Left leg raised, left elbow hugging the knee toward your chest, left hand on the appropriate section of the home row. Shoes off, legs crossed Indian-style. Slumping, left leg propped on a different chair, right leg pushing against the cubicle wall. You're miserable.

Now, that peanut butter sandwich that inexplicably lacked jelly or bananas or honey? The one you ate without the benefit of a chaser? It turns out you didn't eat a peanut butter sandwich, but rather two mercury thermometers wedged between a bar of hand soap and a chalkboard eraser. Now punch yourself in the stomach until you get tired. Now think of the thing that you use to distract and relax yourself - let's say that thing is bowling. Break both arms. Watch the PBA on television. Know you'll never be that good, and in all likelihood, your arms will heal in such a manner that it will be impossible for you to pick up a ball again, even those little pink ones with the small holes you can't fit your fingers inside.

That's how I'm feeling lately.