Dealing Drugs (alternate title: A Visit Home)

I went home for two weeks at the beginning of August, and everything that happened in that two week period related in some form or another to a single theme. 

That theme was drugs.

My mother, like I imagine many other suburban housewives with internet addictions are prone to do, fancies herself something of a pharmacist.  She collects and hoards drugs in a cabinet in our kitchen.  My family has so many medical problems (complex migraines, regular migraines, mild headaches, mysterious stomach ailments, back pains, about four different types of insomnia, a jaw that pops out of place, hyperthyroidism, high blood pressure, and so on and so forth) that over the years we have been prescribed literally hundreds (ok maybe dozens. or A hundred. but a lot. actually, maybe hundreds) of different types of drugs.  Of course, prescribing drugs is a hit or miss game, especially with problems like insomnia and migraines.  I have personally been prescribed around ten different drugs for insomnia over the years, and I still haven’t found anything that works for me. 

Now, some mothers might throw away old drugs once a new medication is prescribed, a generic form comes out, or the FDA bans it for safety reasons.

Not my mom.  She adds them to the cabinet and proceeds to dole them out in situations that she deems appropriate. 

This may sound dangerous, but it’s not.  No, she doesn’t have a medical degree- she’s got something better.  She has access to Web MD. 

Actually, my mother has been playing this game (this game being nonprofessional self diagnosis/diagnosis of one’s family) for much longer than the internet has been playing it.  Somewhere in the recesses of our house lies a book that appears to have been passed down through generations but really has just been overused by my mother: Dr. Mom (I called her to verify the title of the book and she said "Oh! It's actually such a great book.  Are you buying a copy to use when you nanny?" "No mom, I'm making fun of it in a story I'm writing" "Oh"). 

I think that every child has a point in the process of maturing that they realize that their parents are not always right, a point where they begin to question their parent’s choices.      One of my realizations was that my mother probably shouldn’t be doling out other people’s drugs to family members.  As a seven year old, I was very worried. 

I’m not saying I don’t take the drugs, I’m just saying that I realize that it is both unsafe and inappropriate.  This seems less than important when you are sick and your mother (you can always trust your mom, right?) is offering you medication.

Quickly upon my return, I realized that I seemed to have developed some sort of allergy to my home.  Upon further inspection, I realized that the problem was most likely the fact that the top of the huge bookcase in my room hasn’t been dusted in (rough estimate) 4 years.  That being said, the idea of my having an allergy to my home itself makes more sense emotionally, so I’m going to go with that.

On my fourth night at home, I broke down and asked my mom for drugs. 

The way this really happened is that I begged her for drugs every night after the first one but she was always too busy (doing what? I’m not sure either) to look in her medicine cabinet until she finally decided that listening to my whining about feeling awful was more annoying than the prospect of ceasing her (almost) continual perusal of Yahoo(!) on the fourth night.  However, the idea that I broke down and asked on the fourth night and was immediately given the necessary assistance makes me feel better about my home life, so, again, I’m going to go with that.

Visits home are all about the mind games. 

Once I had finally caught her attention, I reverted to my previous occupation of bonding with (harassing) Brecken while she made herself dinner (at 11.30pm. don’t tell me she’s not ready for college). 

After a few minutes, my mother presented me with a bottle of some sort of syrup.

“Here. Take this senzacarboloxin (or something like that. sort of like that.).”

I began to obediently take the medication but was impeded by my sister’s snatching the bottle from my hand. 

“No, don’t take this.  You can do better than that, hold out for the phenagran,” she advised haughtily.  How dare I be silly enough to fall for this amateurish drug?

I’d like to take this moment to point out (kindly) that Brecken’s best subject is art. 

I proceeded to look for a measuring cup to take the medicine, quietly pondering my family’s inappropriate relationship with pharmaceuticals.  I realized that I didn’t know what dosage to take, and that my mom was almost out of earshot.

“Mom! How much to I take?” I yelled in the dainty, ladylike sort of fashion that I am wont to use. 

“One or two teaspoons,” she bellowed in returned. 

Brecken laughed and muttered, “Get a straw.”

I can never tell if Brecken is us or them.