We all agreed.
My sister all ready went over to the main office to discuss staying another night at the hotel. While walking on the boardwalk, my parents text me, suggesting we all stay another night. The weather is beautiful, tomorrow will be beautiful too. We discuss it eagerly, all very keen to stay. It’s decided.
My alarm goes off reminding me to take my pills. I packed up my precious medicine in a tiny water proof, sand proof, case, inside a tiny wristlet, stuck inside my bigger purse. I take out of the blue case, open the compartment and they spill out into my open palm. I only have enough medicine for one night. It wouldn’t be a big deal if it wasn’t for the migraine medicine. I can skip a night of birth control, I can take one of my sister’s metformin, I can skip the magnesium supplement but I can’t skip the cymbalta.
I flash back to the fall when the pharmacy messed up, leaving me with out medicine, leaving me desperate for something to be done. Stunned into idleness, left in disbelief, acting too late. I can hear my screams echo in my mind as I dealt with the withdraw pain. Screaming into my pillow was the only thing to distract me from the pain.
Suddenly, sitting on the floor of our hotel suite, I feel guilty. If I didn’t come, they could stay longer. If I wasn’t sick, they could stay longer. If I didn’t depend so heavily on this medicine, they could stay. We could stay. I swallow my pills with water. They always leave a bitter taste in my mouth.
“I don’t have enough medicine,” I tell my sister.
“Okay,” she says.
“We can’t stay,” and it’s my fault.
They all reassure me it’s fine, that we will leave tomorrow afternoon as planned. They’re all so understanding – it makes me feel worse.