The Case of the Missing Medications

I grew up sharing a bedroom with my younger sister and my paternal grandmother, one of whom was fun and the other who was a hypochondriac whose only way to get anybody pay attention to her was to be sick. Which was sad on many levels; but for the purposes of this post, it was sad because as long as I knew her, she read a book a week and was probably capable of conversation on any number of interesting topics. On the other hand, The Other Guy hasn’t read for many years, and for many years most of his conversations begin like this:

TOG:   I had a bad night last night….

Me:  Sorry, what happened?

TOG:  (Texting words, many of which included: heat, trouble breathing, werewolves, pain in his side, living a life of whiney desperation, not having any appetite, unable to sleep).

I know how to follow this script without breaking a sweat. I’m resting from a particularly strenuous day at the park with the dog, followed by a trip to dog beach with the dog, and I’m watching a particularly good Perry Mason episode with Michael Rennie and drinking watered down bourbon.

Me:  Time to see the doctor?

WISIMH:  Lucky for me texting is literally phoning it in.

TOG:  (Texting words, some of which include: I’m on it like hair on soap, I’ll get around to making an appointment when an iceberg crashes into the gates of hell, ok, trouble breathing, I’m reading a most interesting book.)

Me:  How about starting that course of steroids prescribed by your pulmonologist for when you have a “flare”.

WISIMH:  Flare. Now there’s a term with a metaphorical value of 9 out of 10. It’s short for flare up which is what happens when: a) Smokey Bear doesn’t remind campers to extinguish campfires; or b) the suffocating symptoms of people with COPD spiral into a feedback loop and get worse and worse. Wait, can loops spiral? Also, I’m pretty sure the blackmailer’s girlfriend killed him, not the defendant. TOG has a standing order for steroids to take when flares occur, but he won't think of it on his own.

TOG:  Prednisone?

WISIMH:  No. Cyanide.

Me:  Yup, prednisone. Do you have that, or do I?

TOG:  (Texting words, some of which include: I don’t see the prednisone within my immediate reach, so I’d have to get up and open a cupboard door or at least lift up a stack of mail on the table next to me to see if I have it and that’s not going to happen any time soon, it hurts to move even the slightest distance, why don’t you look for it in your house before I bother to do anything more than sit here and breathe like a failing sump pump, better chance it’s in your kitchen cupboard, had to get my dinner “to go” tonight because I can’t sit in the dining room.)

WISIMH:  Then again, maybe it’s the defendant’s uncle who wants her in jail for murder so he’ll get control of the wealthy company her father left her. He’s pretty sketchy now that I see how mean he is to his alcoholic wife.

Me:  (Having actually gotten up and looked in the kitchen pill cupboard finding only expired tranquilizers prescribed to me and no steroids prescribed to TOG) Nope. I don’t have the prednisone here. It must be with your pills. Suggest you start (the 5-day regimen) tonight with your bedtime pills.

TOG:  K

WISIMH:  Dammit! It WAS the lawyer’s assistant because he was the only one who could have seen the combination to the safe when the defendant accidentally bumped into him in the hallway.  Wait, I might be mixing up the plots of two consecutive episodes here. Maybe that bourbon wasn’t watered down as much as I thought.

Me:  Ok, sweetie. Hope you sleep better tonight. Love you.