Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday

My pillbox. That’s how I begin and end each day now. I’m considering graduating to an AM/PM Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday pillbox. It’s official. I am my mother. I even take one of the same pills she takes. It’s the PM one. And I have the same amount of doctor specialists, as well. A colleague and friend of mine, Liz, from Kentucky, used to say to me, “Gettin’ old ain’t for sissies.” Boy was she ever right.

Sunday, I had a hair appointment. I had to let Teresa, my hairdresser, know all the medication I’m on. Before I told her, she knew something was up. She took one look at my faded hair and said, “What’s going on?” She made all the necessary adjustments to mixing my new hair dye. It seems highlighting and certain prescription drugs don’t mix. Consequently, now I’m a copper redhead. Mark likes it; although he says I change my hair color as often as Lady Gaga changes her costumes. I think I have to change the picture on my driver’s license now because it doesn’t look like me at all.

Pills, pills, pills; pink and white, morning and night. What I don’t understand about taking all this medication is that the potential side effects can be the same as the symptoms of the conditions you take them for. For example, I have dizzy spells and palpitations. So, I take metoprolol- possible side effects: dizzy spells and palpitations. So now, how am I supposed to know if the medication is helping me? And, sometimes, the side effects of these medications can be worse than the symptoms of the condition you have. I don’t get it.

Aside from the pills, I have to go for all these tests. The last test I took was an MRI/MRA. The technician gave me earplugs and watched me put them in my ears to make sure I did it right. Then, he covered my ears with this foam around my head, as well. He told me it was going to be “noisy”. Noisy? How about “DEAFENING”. How about deafening with a side of vibrations? How about sitting inside of a drill hammer? For 45 minutes? And the results- I have to wait all day for. It was kind of funny, too, because when the doctor did finally call on my cell phone, the connection was poor. So, I asked him to call my direct line at my office. I sit in a large, open cubicle at work. Everyone was anxious to find out what was wrong with me. After I finished speaking to the doctor, I turned around to find an audience of about seven of my colleagues looking at me, concerned, saying in unison, “Well??”

Well, everything’s okay, but not that okay. There’s always a little something wrong, enough to get another pill added to the pill box and another test I have to schedule an appointment for. I have continually been poked, prodded, shook, and even had a tube shoved down my throat to take a picture of my heart. Life is good, though. I have 230 days and 690 pills to go until Lindsay and Scott’s wedding. That’s if the specialists don’t add or take away any more medication. And now I have my two daughters and my future son-in-law who watch everything I put near my mouth like hawks and then check to see if it has too much cholesterol.

I started to see a nutritionist. Well, she’s actually my friend, Betsy, at work; but she is a nutritionist. She’s helping me with the epidemiology of all my ailments. She’s extremely thorough. One of the first things she asked me is if I feel stressed. Then she answered, “Of course you feel stressed; your daughter is getting married. You’re making a wedding. Who wouldn’t feel stressed in this situation?” I guess Betsy is right. I must be stressed. She made me realize how much I feel I have to be there for everyone, in my work life and my personal life. She told me I have to take care of myself; otherwise, how could I be helpful to anyone else? I guess I’m an enabler; maybe I’ve allowed everyone to depend on me too much.

Today when I met with Betsy to start on my nutritional plan, she pressed the issue of stress again. And I said something very strange to her- It’s not so easy to lose a daughter. My reaction to what I said immediately registered in Betsy’s expression. Did I just say “lose a daughter”? I asked, startled at myself. I tried to backtrack. I didn’t really mean it that way. That was a terrible way to put it. Betsy did not respond. She just let me talk, her eyes and upturned brows saying just what she was thinking. I guess I do feel like that in a way; I mean my little girl is a woman now, ready to start her own life. It’s funny that last night I dreamt about holding babies. Maybe it’s a little bittersweet. Not that I’m not thrilled she’s getting married. And I’m not losing a daughter; I’m gaining a son. I couldn’t ask for a better son either; one who is sweet and practical and makes sure to kiss me on the cheek every time he sees me. One who reminds me of one of the best men in my life- my dad. One who I know will make the most wonderful husband to my daughter. I’m ecstatic about this. I told Betsy. Inside I told myself- It’s just that it seems like it all went so fast, from diapers, to spinning skirts, to sweet sixteens, to prom dresses, to wedding dresses and now I’m on drugs to make sure I don’t have a stroke.

Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays, Sundays come and go. The future bride and groom are doing very well with their wedding planning. They hired the limousines; they picked out the flowers; they did the cake tasting; they ordered the invitations; they booked the hotel rooms for the out of town guests; they even found and met with the rabbi. They are pretty close to their budget. They did all this without the mother of the bride. All I have to do now is pick out a dress. I wish I knew what color my hair will be, though.