Just Say No to (Prescription) Drugs

I’ve concluded that being independently wealthy is where it’s at. This whole 9-to-5 thing ain’t nearly as catchy as Dolly Parton made it out to be. In the current drought of self-respect and decency, people are turning to truly pitiful ways of making a buck, particularly by suing pharmaceutical companies.

Consider the woman that won dang near 3-million bucks for being served a cup of hot coffee. So let me get this straight… McDonald’s actually got somebody’s order out while it was hot, and they got sued for it? (Altogether now, THANKS, STELLA!) Or how about the case of the young woman who claimed that McDonald’s led her to become a prostitute? Seriously?! Jack the Ripper had a thing for prostitutes, but it’s preposterous to think that those girls got fries with that.

Since having kids, I may have gotten a little more high-strung than I used to be. I can’t help it, y’all! If you visit my house unannounced, my four-year-old, baby girl will be running down the stairs in nothing but a gas-mask and a smile, Rae-Rae will be smoking Smarties and practicing his famous ear dancing, and Bubby will be playing with fire again. (Although, I must say, since he put out that candle with the can of compressed air, his pyromaniacal tendencies have greatly diminished.) So, yes, heaven forbid, my nerves tend to get a little frazzled at times…to the point that I’ve resorted to shooting up Tums intravenously.

Now I hate taking medicines. Nothing ticks me off more than a doctor looking at me over his glasses reminding me that I need to take all ten days of Penicillin for strep this time. Well, I may need to, but I ain’t gonna! But my nerves have gotten the best of me, so the old doc-in-the-box put me on Zantac for ulcers.

It helped at first, but then the side effects started peeking in through the blinds of my medicine cabinet, and for some ungodly reason, my hair started falling out. My hair is thin anyway, so the development of morning tumbleweeds in the bathroom floor made me a little upset, which is pretty ironic considering they put me on this crap for stress in the first place.

So I go back to the doctor, and he says “Well, we can continue trying to treat the symptoms, or we can elect to treat the underlying cause:  hormones.” Yep, he said it. The h-word. If I ever decide to have a low-rent rendezvous with an 85-year-old Jewish doctor that’s a foot shorter than me, he is SO off the list of candidates.

So, he takes me off the Zantac and puts me hormone replacement therapy. Well, call me crazy, but I don’t think a LACK of hormones is my problem…just ask my loving husband. Dr. Finkelstein puts me on this hormone regiment that is supposed to fix my mood-swings, wire that money I promised to the Nigerians, and sanitize my toilets all by taking one little pill.

“That’s grand, Dr. F! I’m thrilled to be on this new medicine, Dr. – um, what was your name again? I’m feeling much better, but could you tell me why I have these pills in my pocket and, by the way, what’s my name? And why do you keep drawing my blood? Are you a vampire?!”

“Well, ma’am, one side effect of the hormone replacement therapy is dementia.”

“No kidding, Colombo!!  I’ve always wanted to go there! It’s in California, right?”

‘Charge nurse to curtain 1, Charge nurse to curtain 1…psych consult stat!’

So I’m in this curtained off area of the office now, waiting for that purple monkey to bring me my glitter shampoo like he promised, when some old, wrinkly midget with Coke-bottle glasses walks in, and says he wants to give me a different kind of candy. OOH, CANDY! Cherry or strawberry, please.

I probably wouldn’t have minded him switching my candy if I hadn’t gained 11 pounds, doubled my LDL numbers, and developed congestive heart failure since the last commercial break. “Hey, Doc McStuffins, can I have my special lollipop back?”

“Your lollipop is stuck on the side of your head, ma’am, right where you left it. Everything’s gonna be alright, ma’am; we’re just going to adjust your dosage a little bit.”

“But I don’t WANNA be fat from my candy! Why do you keep all the good candy, and give me the stuff that tastes bad? MOMMY! THE BAD MAN STOLE MY CANDY!”

“Well, I’ll tell you what. How about I give you an even bigger bag of candy that will make you feel much better? You like the candy I give you, don’t you?”

“Shaken, not stirred,” I mumble in my best Sean Connery.

“Yes, ma’am, I’ll make a note of it in your file. How about some special diet candy to help you get that extra weight off?”

“10-4, El Capitan. Charlie-Omega…” hiccup…”Alfalfa-Romeo-Brian Boitano, over and out, Big Cheese.”

“Alright, darlin’. Nurse, we’re gonna need to set her up with the 10 mg capsules of Vasotec for her presenting heart condition, and let’s give her a 30-day supply of Alli to help with the weight loss. And…let’s go ahead and give her a script for Risperdal until she decides who she is, just in case this is sudden onset schizophrenia.”

“OH GIVE ME SHALOM WITH THE BUFFALO GNOMES…”

Man, this I.V. stand can dance the socks off of the guys I dated in high school. Dip me, you bad boy!

****

I ain’t gonna lie…the next thing I remember, I’m in the emergency room with some rather bothersome side effects….again.

“Honey, when did your eye fall out? Where’s my dance card? DID YOU STEAL MY LIVER? WHY DO I HAVE BOOBS?” I don’t know what would’ve happened if he hadn’t given me his iPod to distract me.

“You can be my baby, it don’t matter if you’re black or white…”

Well, the combination of Vasotec and Alli turned out to be a little unnerving as the Alli he recommended, in the manufacturer’s own words, “may produce gas with oily spotting.” Normally, not a huge deal…but life-altering when you combine it with the side effects of the Vasotec:  “can cause the inability to smell.” Y’all, I am so blessed to still be married.

So, after enduring a most damaging few weeks in the healthcare system, I think my husband’s glad to have his moody sweetheart back. After all of those prescriptions and their daunting side effects, my doctor finally settled on Lipitor…which conveniently comes with a side of amnesia. Well played, Dr. Fahrvergnugen, well pl—wait, what was I saying?

Anyway…guess what I learned from a pamphlet in the waiting room?  Viagra can make it difficult to see the color blue. That made me giggle so hard, but I haven't the foggiest idea why.

I hope you’ve learned an important lesson from today’s story:  just say no to drugs…particularly the ones thrown at you by the oompa loompa’s in the white coats.

*Unfortunately, with the exception of the sudden onset Congestive Heart Failure, all of these side effects are acknowledged and noted by the pharmaceutical manufacturers. Comforting, huh?