What is this? A conveyor belt of pills?! Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Jesus Christ, Jod. I gotta take all these pills?
Dad asks in gasping breaths after he appropriately massages his face. A sure sign of disgust and aggravation we all know well.
Unless you wanna die sooner, yea you gotta take these pills, Dad.
Is this the last day?
No, one more after today.
With his weight down to 149, Dad’s hazel eyes have become more prominent in his sunken face, especially when he’s exasperated. It’s funny, Mom keeps commenting on his beautiful, blue eyes when she sees him downstairs now. As I sit here next to him, they are very much hazel. And they are communicating confusion, annoyance, and helplessness.
In this moment he reminds of the character from The Fly Guy books my kids love. A bulging eyed fly with a cape. Except Dad can’t fly.
Maybe I need to look at this pill situation we have downstairs. Are you sure you got this right? I feel like I just took these pills earlier. All I am doing is taking pills. I swear I took 18 pills this morning.
Oh, joy! Dad is micromanaging me and second guessing my stellar home-health-care-babysitting-medication-management-skills.
Hmmm. That’s a tough one. Since I can’t read the directions on the pill containers or count using simple math…You’re right, Dad. I might just have fucked up this already fucked up situation even more. THANK THE LORD you are on top of things!!!
I scream and flip the plate of pills on the floor and stomp my feet while giving Dad the finger.
I have become the best primary teacher I know channeling immense amounts of humor and while practicing my inside voice.
Dad, you’re killing me here. (the irony of that statement is not lost on me). I didn’t even give you your diuretics and heart meds today because you are freaking out. Hate to tell you, but you are getting fewer meds than you’re supposed to which makes me a bad nurse.
Jessuuussss Chrisstttt. What exactly are all these pills doing for me? I feel like absolute shit. Death warmed over.
Here’s where things get tricky, folks. Sometimes Dad forgets what is really going on with him. The tick-tock of father time is a bitch when it comes to the rare disease he has. We could tip toe through the tulips and pretend that things are all sunshine, roses, and rainbows, but how is that helpful or honest?
So I just say IT.
“These little pills are fighting the proteins that are trying to kill you. We can scrap it, but then you’ll just die sooner. Rather than later.”
Silence. I hand dad one of the eight chemo pills he has to take and a glass of water.
Take a big sip and tilt your head back. Then swallow, Dad. You always forget to tilt your head back and that makes things harder on you.
One down. Seven more to go.