I’ll tell you this – I hate popping pills. White ones, round ones, big ones, yellow, blue, purple and green. The Skittles of the pharmaceutical world.
All of my life I’ve never had much interest or need in medication of any sort, even over-the-counter. But as I’ve aged, and my idiotic antics have caught up with me (yes, gratuitous mention of The Unfortunate ATV Incident, again), and my body betrays me with diseases, syndromes and injuries – sometimes the meds are a rude-awakening necessity.
I manage most of my pain without any medicine. I’ve been in physical therapy for two years, and Lori is an awesome therapist who listens, lectures, and is better for my body than any pill I could swallow. My chiropractor shoots straight with me, assists me with homeopathic remedies, and doesn’t try to convince me one leg is shorter than the other. Working with my endocrinologist, little magic tablets are the only way to lower my through-the-roof blood sugars. I’m not perfect with diet and exercise, but limp along, literally and figuratively. So why is it when I cave to the pain and finally make it go away, this sinful luxury known as Vicodin leaves me feeling like such a failure?
We are a pill-dependent society, without a doubt. There isn’t a problem anywhere that someone doesn’t have a distraction for. I don’t say “cure” because we all want to believe in the snake-oils but the truth is we are deluding ourselves with most of them. What I don’t understand is how we can discover the miracle pill of growing thicker eyelashes, but still can’t cure cancer after all these years.
At least we can bat our pretty little glazed eyes as we lay dying.
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