Dropping the Ball…

Not a ball exactly. A little pill less than a quarter of the size of a pea. But what an important little pill it is.

It was 2:30 am when I was getting to bed, and as usual had reached for my night time dosage of my medications. My hands are often quite shaky, and one of the pills slipped between my fingers. I noticed before I had put them to my mouth, usually I do a quick inventory with my tongue to make sure no pill went astray between hand and lips. You can’t be too careful when your hands aren’t steady.

In the dimness of the night light, I couldn’t tell which of my pills was missing somewhere in the carpet. My first thought was concern that the cat would get to it first. He’s quick, and I’m not able to reach the floor. My second thought was the hope that it wasn’t one of the expensive meds for which the dosage is closely monitored by the insurance company. The carpeting in this apartment is pretty grungy and the thought of putting the dropped pill in my mouth was completely unappealing.There’s one medication in particular that I can’t get refilled until I only have just two pills left, the insurance company will only cover thirty days worth at a time of any of my meds. And no automatic refills so my doctor has be bothered each time. There is no end to the additional red tape that comes with being of palliative status, I really didn’t need a replacement pill being one more headache for me to address this week.

I needed Suzanna’s help, calling over to her side of the bed to give me a hand. She quickly got up, found the pill and got me a replacement. It had been my beta blocker, a cardiac medication used to help regulate my very irregular heart rate. Not taking it would have been problematic, as would accidentally taking a double dose if in the dark I had guessed the wrong medication to be missing from my hand. Thankfully it wasn’t a pill which would require a call to the pharmacy, it’s the one for which I need to adjust the dosage based on how my heart is behaving so I’m provided with a bit of wiggle room in my supply.

Prior to the last six months or so dropping something wouldn’t have been such a big deal. Not being able to pick anything up off the floor has been very frustrating for me. Adding to the frustration was the fact that I had taken off my oxygen a few minutes earlier to wash my face and brush my teeth, I was unable to get enough air to speak to Suzanna. I had to communicate with her through gestures and whispers.

Ever so gently she placed the replacement pill in my hand, and after I put them in my mouth she handed me a glass of water. These days I have to hold a glass with two hands to drink, and my teeth clink annoyingly against the glass as my hands shake.

She then replaced my day bed wedge (steeper to allow me to lay at a higher angle in bed) with the night wedge (my head and chest needs to be raised while I sleep to help avoid the dreaded night coughing and gasping).

Suzanna takes wonderful care of me, but I can’t help but dread what else my failing body will cause me to drop the ball on. With that, comes the responsibility for her to pick those balls up for me. I detest the reminders of how the scale is tipping more every day.