When I wake up on Sunday morning, there's one job which always awaits me: this is the day when I sort out my medications for the week. I can't believe that I use the word medication but it probably indicates my changing attitude to life. Marilyn's mother used to talk about her 'medications' and I always thought that the word gave the pills too much importance. They were only pills, after all. Of course, I didn't take any regular pills then, so medication had no place in my life.
Now, sixty years later, an hour of every Sunday morning is devoted to filling my little pill dispenser with the tiny objects which keep my life on an even keel. I can tell you what they're all for: the big white one and the little round yellow one and the slightly bigger orange one, the round ones, the oval ones, the tiny ones with a groove, and so on.
Each Sunday I check that I have enough supply for the next week and, if I'm running short, I have to order more. No longer do I take my hand-written script into the chemist; nowadays, I order them through a dedicated app. I've never seen a paper script for any of my 'medications; I ring my doctor to tell him when my script has expired, he sends a message to my pharmacy and the app tell me that I am good to go for another month.
Regularly, the chemist asks me if I want to take advantage of their service where somebody in a back room somewhere will fill my little boxes for me, and it won't cost me anything. I'm not tempted yet; it seems like part of a slippery slope into old age, but I suppose the time will come when I'll be left out of the process entirely: doctor, pharmacy, medication filler will all have a functioning role and I will only be the 'end user'. 'It's time to take your medication. Open wide!'
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