Fill The Box

Photo by Rodion Kutsaev on Unsplash

I keep it filled, like the baker on Saturday morning stocking the display case. Four in each of the seven allotted spots on the top row. Five in each enclosed square on the second row. Then repeat for row three and four. 126 pills – engineered treats of hopeful healing – apportioned for twice daily delivery, morning and evening, for yet another two-week period.

She misses one every few days. The 600 mg Gabapentin casts a shadow and obscures that tiny crumb of a Mirtazapine – it’s just a little brown M&M boxed alongside a German chocolate cake. It doesn’t help that this tray of mostly white meds are served from a mostly white med-minder box. Still, Patty knows her pills and she gets most of them down.

She has been on this pill diet for months, since her husband passed away. His pill regimen filled a few bakery cases, so hers is relatively easy. But it’s not helping. But we don’t know. Can we know?

A cranky back greets Patty in the morning. Her other roommate, dizziness, is more menacing; it pokes her back to the couch when it’s time to go to lunch; it often threatens her when dinner hour nears, and she takes the meal in her room, alone almost.

Aided by her walker – no wheelchair this time – we make it to another doctor appointment. Sidestepping into an over-furnished room, her doctor prescribed himself a grin. His wrinkled trousers and mismatched shirt said “Trust me, I’m just like you” while his English accent boasted “Believe me I’m much smarter than you.”

She had doubts about Dr. English – no, that’s not his name. He greeted her warmly, pronounced “Patty” with elegantly stressed Ts, and looked her in the eye when asking “How ahh you feeling Patty?”

“Disappointed.” The answer lingered, a half-eaten banana-cream pastry alone in a box and melding with the bakery tissue paper.

Dr. English scratched the back of his neck in wonderment, and Patty stared him down. I considered cleaning out that donut box.