Endolyne
The elevator doors open with a hiss, with a sigh. Jake sighs. He moves heavily through the retreating doors, shoulders creeping unknowingly towards his ears, his head weighty on the stem of his neck. He wills his feet to move him towards his car; puts his hand into the large square pocket of his canvas coat; his fingertips reach for his keys. Instead he finds the ridged rim of a prescription bottle. It rattles. Jake encloses the cap with two fingers and a thumb, extracts the culprit. Lyrica, 20 milligrams, 60 count. Do not operate heavy machinery. Do not take with alcohol. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Lyrica. Such a pretty name. Like a sultry goddess. Like a siren’s song. Jake grips the lid, does the familiar push-and-twist of child resistant caps. Pink coated tablets rest inside. He pours them into his hand– 60 count, $127. It’s the final sum in a long row of three digit figures–and still the chronic malfunction, still the driving pain. Jake tips his hand, the tablets arch from his hand to the asphalt, a descending arpeggio. The elevator door hisses open once more. A happy couple rides inside, her belly round, fresh from an ultrasound. They emerge to find a man in a canvas coat, standing next to a sliver car; repeatedly twisting his heal, grinding pills to dust.
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Today I saw my neurologist. I’ve had a migraine every day for two weeks. There are no other options. It’s Botox on Friday.
In the parking lot of the medical building, which is multi-level and very grey and dim, the empty spot next to mine was filled with half-crushed altoids.
And did you know, arpeggio also means “broken chord?”
I choked as I read this, aware of your constant battle for health. For some reason this evokes for me the weight of all those things that I fight against and feel like I’m losing ground on, reflected in this fight of yours that you feel like you are losing ground on. Prayers and hope to you, to both of us, to all of us. I will light the biggest candle I can find in the house for you tonight. And for your family, because they are in this battle with you. Fight on!
I know this was a hard thing for you to decide on. I am sorry you’ve had to reach the decision in the midst of a pain crisis. Had my Botox on Monday; remember, it doesn’t work immediately, you are actually sore and icky for a little while afterwards (like I am now). Baby yourself. Have your Demerol handy, your candles and peaceful music. Do some yoga, get a massage…have patience.
You, Paul, and the girls are in my heart.
You are doing what you have to do, simply to live.
Thanks for all the support, love, and pratical advice. Shannon, your first hand experience has really been a help to me. I’m grateful for you all.
R
hugs and love to you, wise one
xo Jennifer
I hope this brings some relief for you — soon.
Rachelle
Ken sends his best. He, as you know, suffers from migraines as well and has been really helped by botox injections.
I know you didn’t want to go this route though.
I am sorry and will pray for good things for you.
hope,
Kelly