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Our town
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[04/13/00]

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When I travel, this is what I pack: green and white Sudafed Sinus, for any close encounters of the pollen and mold kind, and a muscle relaxant (the name long erased from the bottle, as a result of my talismanic rubbing), just in case I should find myself moved to engage in some kind of activity I usually eschew, like swing dancing, capricious movement of heavy furniture or the occasional "Hey, I'm not that old" back walkover, usually performed after a couple of mai tais. I've got a few penicillins in there (yes, I realize you must take the entire prescription), because at times one sallies forth without shoes, or a scarf at the throat, tempting all sorts of mayhem. There's the two blue Zoviraxes, in case I should forget my parasol -- my quaint protection from the rude sun -- and begin to sense a slight tingling in my lips, the doomed harbinger of dastardly cold sores.

Also tucked into the first-aid kit are a tin of chalky tummy drugs such as Titralac, Gaviscon and their poor relation, Tums; two pretty pink Benadryl capsules, should I be beset by hives or insomnia; Atenolol, a performance-anxiety drug, because you never know when you will be called upon to do an impromptu recitation or have to commandeer a classroom of roaming creative writing students. Finally, and most banally, I have red and white Excedrin Migraine tablets for headaches and the strangely orangey-brown Advil for everything else. Advils are the M&Ms of the pain pill world, slightly sweet and easy to swallow -- you can take fistfuls of these.

I realize my habit raises eyebrows in some circles. But unlike vitamin gobblers, or those who would imbibe elixirs of echinacea and goldenseal, brew murky bark teas or dribble tinctures of flowers on the back of their tongues, I want certainty. I want statistical results backed up by pie charts, not herbal patent medicine quackery.

I confess to a flirtation with the very Victorian idea of distilling and ingesting essences of herbs and flowers, flakes of robin's blood and powdered foxgloves, but when it comes right down to it, in the middle of the night, when I'm haunted by phantoms and gnawed at by pain or dread, or both, I reach for my revolver -- three Excedrin PMs.

While I am a lot slower now to pop just any pill or tuck into codeine syrup, in my heart I still believe in the power of the well-chosen pill. If that means I am just one step away from getting a Burroughs-Wellcome tattoo on my fanny, well, so be it. Though I don't take half of what I used to -- and though I am still devoted to over-the-counter pain pills -- I do like to have some big-time pharmaceuticals on hand, just in case. It's like having a hit man in the family. Those pills are like an old friend you know you can rely on, someone who has seen you at, and through, your very worst.

Recently I was spring-cleaning my bathroom closet and happened upon a bevy of zip-lock bags in a box at the rear of a shelf. As I went through the bags I found a sample of nearly every prescription I've ever had. Romantic that I am, I'd kept them the way you'd keep a corsage from a fancy dance, to remind you of a love affair, a tempestuous and dangerous flirtation, a bad mistake. I shook the jars and listened to their songs.
salon.com | April 20, 2000

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