In what amounted to a grand romantic gesture, my husband surprised me by filling my long-abandoned pill organizer while I was on campus the other day.
There’ve been a few times over the past month in which I’ve had a seizure in an unfortunate window that left unclear whether I’d already taken my evening meds. Of course, when I’m postictal, trying to clear things up by, say, talking to me is often an idiotic waste of breath: if I’m not sure what my name is, how can I be expected to remember significantly less important information? There could, however, be consequences if I miss my drugs, even once, or for double-dosing. This presents a dilemma for poor A (though not for me; a benefit of being oblivious to what’s going on around me is not having to make any decisions besides whom or what to curse/curse at).
Forcing myself to sit down once a week and organize my cocktail of drugs would eliminate this and other problems, but I’m so g-d forgetful and lazy (a larger and more complicated issue that I’ll tackle at some future date). In the past, I convinced myself that I’d get in the habit of performing this simple task, even setting a reminder in my iCalendar to “Be an Adult and Deal with Your Stuff” (last word changed for your benefit). A reminder! How official. How grown up. How annoying, turned out, to go to the trouble of ignoring the message that popped up on my computer screen every seven days. I eventually gave up on myself.
I’m pretty much the worst.
Cue my best friend and life partner.
While I was desperately seeking water during my pretend-I-can-dry-swallow ritual last night, it struck me: counting out 119 pills and distributing them into a week’s worth of little plastic boxes to make things easier and safer for me without being asked to do so was such an incredible act of love and, I’ll somewhat begrudgingly admit, more romantic than any ol’ bouquet of flowers or box of chocolates or other clichéd Valentine’s Day–style gift.
My husband is pretty much the best.
(Unfortunately, there was a hiccup today in adjusting to this new era in my life of pill-taking: I woke up early, groggily took my meds in the manner I used to, fell back asleep, then took them again when I woke up the second time and saw the pill organizer on the kitchen table. I’ve felt woozy all day. I’ll call it a Topamax-induced memory lapse, but there’s a not-so-small chance that it was simple stupidity. I guess I deserve what I got.)