Content Warning: A(n Implied) Seizure as a Result of Missed Medication
Beep-beep! Beep-beep!
Morning light seeps in through the cracks in your bedroom window, while your phone beeps and vibrates on the bedside table. You groan, roll over, and fumble around until you manage to swipe the alarm away. All that buzzing and beeping stops. In blurry digits, the time reads 7:30 a.m. Next, you reach for your pill box—a colourful heptagon with compartments for each day of the week—and crack open the lid labelled “MON.” You feel around the little compartment. There aren’t any pills.
You sit up now and instead reach for your glasses sitting beside the pill box. On your face they go, and the world snaps into focus. Yep. There sure are no pills in your Monday compartment. You must have forgotten to refill it. Into the top drawer of your bedside table you dive, only to pull out a flimsy cardboard box—KEPPRA Levetiracetam 500mg: Take ONE tablet TWICE daily—containing a whole lot of air.
OK. Right, that’s right. You meant to refill your prescription yesterday, but the pharmacy was closed. You missed last night’s dose, too. But it’s fine! You’ve missed a dose before and not had a seizure. You’ll stop by the pharmacy today. Just need to remember the paper script.
#
It’s lunch time, and it’s been a long day already. The shopping centre is packed; you can barely hear yourself think over the babble of voices, the overlapping pop songs from every different shop, the rattle of trollies. Your bag bounces against your hip, and you squint against the never-ending fluorescent lights. The beginnings of a headache throb in your temples. But it’s fine. You just need to drop into the pharmacy, then leave again.
Look, it’s right there. Between the shelves of bandaids, moisturisers, and vitamins you go, up to the smiling woman at the counter.
“Hi, I’d like to get a script filled,” you say and reach into your bag.
You rifle around. Phone, keys, lip balm, tissues, hand sanitiser…no script. You forgot your prescription.
“Uh…”
OK! Next chance you have to go to the pharmacy is tomorrow at lunch. Which means you will miss four doses. Which is worse than two! But, like…you’ll probably be fine? This is fine! Is that pity in the counter woman’s smile?
You buy a lip balm you don’t need, and head back to work.
#
Beep-beep! Beep-beep!
Ugh. You roll over, and in an effort to swipe your phone alarm off, you knock it to the floor.
Beep-Beep! Beep-Beep!
It vibrates its way across the carpet. Ugh.
Your blankets may well be made of molasses, the amount of effort it takes to push the off, to sit up and swing your legs over the side of the bed.
BEEP-BEEP! BEEP-BEEP!
Finally, finally, you get that beeping alarm turned off. Next, you reach for the pill box—“TUE” today. The compartment is empty.
Glasses—you manage to put those on without knocking anything on the floor. Yep. “TUE” compartment empty. Right, you forgot your script yesterday. Better do that today.
With legs steady as a sheet of paper, and a head heavy as a brick, you force yourself out of bed.
#
You don’t know what you did today—stare at a computer screen? You’re so tired. Standing is an effort. The world is grey around the edges. But you’ve made it home.
Thud. You dump your bag on the kitchen table. It tips. Out spills your phone, two lip balms, a folded paper…script…you…
You forgot to go to the pharmacy.
What’s that…you’ve missed four doses now. You’ll miss another one tonight. And another one tomorrow morning. That’s…
Ugh. You’ll worry about that tomorrow morning.
#
Beep-beep! Beep-beep!
“WED.” Still no pills.
You sleepwalk through your day. Forget to go to the pharmacy again. Fall into bed. Don’t even think of your missed dose.
#
Beep-beep! Beep-beep!
Ugh. You roll over.
#
Beep-Beep! Beep-Beep!
You jerk your arm in the direction of your phone. Your arm doesn’t escape the blankets.
#
BEEP-BEEP! BEEP-BEEP!
Dragging your eyelids through mud, you manage to pull them open. Blink a few times. Turn to face your phone.
BEEP-BEEP! BEEP-BEEP!
9:30 a.m.
That can’t be right? Your alarm goes off at 7:30 a.m.?
Forcing your paper limbs through molasses blankets, you turn off the alarm.
Work starts at 9:00 a.m.
Is it worth getting up?
Your stomach gurgles. Mouth is dry.
OK. OK, getting up for water. Food, maybe.
You summon strength and get out of bed. One step at a time, you walk down the hall. The world is off kilter—did you wake up at all? Maybe you’re still dreaming.
There’s the kitchen. Now to grab a cup.
#
You wake up lying on the kitchen floor.
Brittany Lee (she/her) is a writer from Perth, Western Australia and
co-founder of Banksia Journal (find it at banksiajournal.com). She has
studied linguistics, and journalism, and her work has appeared in
AntipodeanSF, Dusty Attic Publishing, and Perth’s Raine Square Story
Dispenser. In her spare time, she enjoys reading, knitting, and spending
time with her dog.
Website: brittanyerinlee.com