I tried to take my medicine before class. My alarm for my 8 o’clock pill had rang in class one too many times. I take my medicine before class and turn off my phone for the remainder of the class.
I start digging around in my book bag looking for my trusty little pill case. My tiny pharmacy. I look in the normal pocket and it’s absent. I look in the other pockets and it’s missing.
And the fear sets in.
My heart begins to race and my head throbs.
I can feel the cymbalta dissapaiting in my blood, I can feel it leave my body. Each little molecule has a wicked grin on it’s face. The migraine is looming in my future, casting a dark shadow over me as I sit in the back of the classroom, panicking.
I find my phone immediately and begin weighing my options. I dart out of the classroom before class begins. Most of my classmates have all ready set in, we’re all ready in a circle. In this small class, my absence will be noted.
I walk, calmly and collected to the back doors of the building and outside. The cool fall air hits my face. My face cold. I wipe my eyes, they’re damp.
With a shaking hand, I call home, my mom.
With my night class, I stayed over at my best friends house. Driving at 9 pm, nearly 40 minutes home gives me a headache. The oncoming headlights trigger me, my head constricts with each passing car.
If I stay over at my friends, on her couch, I skip the headache and get some quality social contact.
I stare blankly at the drive behind the academic building. I watch the cars leave campus with the phone ringing in my ear.
My sister picks up.
“I need mom,” I say in lieu of a “hello”.
The phone is passed around and then she speaks down the line.
“What’s wrong?” It’s like she knows, of course she knows.
“I forgot my medicine,” I say, the ‘I don’t know what to do’ is implied. “So, I’ll come home tonight.”
“But, you’re going to make yourself sick.”
“I’m going to be sick regardless,” my stomach turns over and over. My head throbs.
There is a beat of silence. “I’ll bring them to you,” she says.
No, no, no. I don’t want her to drive 40 minutes because of me. She hates driving at night and dusk. I don’t want to inconvenience her for me. Before she can hear any protest, she says, “It’s what mommies do.”
A sigh of relief and we exchange information for the drop off. It’s like a drug trade. It is a drug trade.
She has the spare set of keys for my car. She leaves them on the passenger seat with a note.
I can slip out during a lull in the class and take them. My classmates give me funny looks – they can see me from the classroom, rummaging around in my car in the parking lot.
I swallow the pills and the shadow of my migraine dissipates.