Learning Not To Think About It

Never been good at taking pills. Some kind of gag reflex, always, whenever I tried to swallow even something as small as an aspirin. I mean, do you put the pill on the back of your tongue? What if you fill your mouth with water and the pill is still there? Do you swirl it around? Take another drink? I'd always seen people in movies and television just throw the pill and tip the head and bammo, it's been swallowed. I could never figure it out. Give me a too-big bite of hamburger and a glass of cold milk and I'll down that sucker in a heartbeat. But a tiny pill turns me into an incompetent, gagging wreck. I think about the whole process way too much.

But I've been pretty lucky. Most of the medicine I've needed over the course of my first two decades of life have always been available in either liquid or chewable forms.

Not so anymore.

In addition to all of the medicine that's given to me directly through the Hickman, there are the pills that I've had to learn how take. My doctors are ruthless about the pills they give me, ruthless and cruel and mean and heartless: not only do they tell me that if I throw up within half an hour of swallowing my handful of medication I'll just have to take the pills again, but they enforce the rules too. Pills don't do me much good if they're flushed down the toilet. So if I puke 'em up, they'll bring new ones for me to swallow.

Bastards. They act as if they want me to get better.

Since I've already got the lingering nausea -- almost always there, a constant reminder -- it just takes a small smell or taste to kick me over the edge. Although the gag of trying to force even the tiniest of pills down my throat isn't enough to make me puke, it does set a few things in motion. My stomach is empty, but I keep swallowing anyway. There's a lump that won't go down. I need to spit. Get up, head to the sink, clear my throat and spit into the sink.

"You okay?" Dad asks.

I'm back in bed, lying as flat as I can, not thinking about my throat or my stomach. I'm not thinking about it. I'm not

"I'm good, Dad. Thanks."

Swallow, swallow, swallow. I'm absolutely not thinking about swallowing another pill just in case I accidentally throw up. I'm not looking at the clock, not trying to remember if it's already been thirty minutes.

"You okay?" Dad asks again? "Feeling sick?"

I'm at the sink again, spitting, shaking my head "no."

It's just that I really need to vomit, now, even though I know that when I'm done in the bathroom, I'll have to take my meds again. And when I'm done with that, I really don't want to be standing here again, spitting into the sink, trying to keep the pills down.

So I figure it out. I'm not hitting the golf ball, I'm hitting through it. I'm not trying to hit a home run, I'm just trying to make contact. It takes practice. It takes time. But time is something I've got plenty of right now, time to perfect my pill-swallowing technique.

Correction: I do not swallow pills anymore. I enjoy a refreshing glass of apple juice, and the pills just come along for the ride.