Prescription

I like the sound of the word pill. I like it better if you talk about taking the pill from the cupboard and setting it down while you get a glass of water from the tap. I like the picture of the water, fuzzy with bubbles from having the faucet turned on too high. I like the sweet taste of the pill coating as one, then two, sit on my tongue and the feeling of the lukewarm water as it washes the pills on their ride down my throat. I get a thrill from the splash the rest of the water makes as I dump it into the metal sink instead of drinking it. Even if I don’t need to, I look into the glass and give a shrug as if I am deciding it’s clean because the shrug brings me enjoyment. I like setting the glass upside down by the sink on the drying mat that maybe I bought just for this moment.

When I have no ailments, I take a mint like a pill. I like the ritual of being sick or rather I like the ritual of believing I can be cured. The idea that I get to decide when it is too much and take a pill. I like to pretend that I should reward myself for taking this pill, like it was a hard thing to do. I imagine I get out a cake knife and cut a big slice off of an unfrosted cake that is on my counter in a cake tray I do not own. The cake would taste nice and mildly sweet. I’d be the kind of person who puts just a little less sugar than the recipe calls for. The pill might have cured me of my need for excess. I like the soft sound the word cake makes in the back of my throat and think it tastes just as sweet as real cake. Because of this satisfaction, I never actually bake.

The next day I like to pretend the pill is a sleeping pill. I like to find a fitted sheet in my linen closet, which I call a cupboard in my mind because the word sounds nicer. I only have colored fitted sheets because I buy them all on sale or as part of a set, but I paint them white. I like to put them around the small couch and get a soft pillow, now also white, and set up the couch like a bed. It gives me great joy to have a real quilt to cover myself with as I take what I pretend is a sick nap. I like to imagine that whatever is wrong with me will be fixed when I wake up because the pill isn’t a placebo, it’s a solution. I like the hum of the tv I’m not watching and the heaviness in my limbs as I wake up. I like feeling just a little too warm as if whatever makes me sick is the kind of thing that leaves a fever as proof.

Sometimes, when it is too much, I like to take the pill quickly with a toss of my head as if I’m just desperate to get it down my throat. In these situations, I set the cup on the counter too roughly. I let out a sigh and I like to slam my hands on the rim of the sink as if it is too much for my body to do anything else. I like to look up and smile sheepishly as if I am not alone in my pretend world and someone sees me, as if I hadn’t meant for them to. I like to imagine I don’t want the sympathy in their imaginary eyes.

I like the smell of a bottle of pills when you peel back the plastic under the cap for the first time. It’s blunt with a slight tang and reminds me of my grandma’s house. There the pills were first for her mother, then for her, then for my aunt. They sold the house, but I like to think the strangers keep their pills in the same pill-scented cupboard. I imagine these people I’ve never met picking a few pills out of each bottle until their hands are full. Their fingers, like my grandmother’s, are crooked and bent with arthritis so sometimes one or two pills drop onto the counter with a clatter. I want to hold pills like they do, like my grandmother did. I like the way pills feel in my hand when I dump them all at once. I like the sound that they make when I rattle them and let them fall onto the tile counter.

I like the phrasing of eating pills because it makes me picture sitting in front of the glow of the fridge in my dark kitchen with a bowl of pills and a spoon. I want to hear them clatter as I stir them together, making perfect bites that contain a little bit of what it takes to fix every part of me. It makes me think about consuming them scoop by scoop as I read the labels of food I look forward to eating. I like the sound my teeth make as I chew on the pills. A satisfying crunch. When I like this version best I like to imagine that the pills won’t be enough. I like the sound of the word palliative. I like to imagine this will all end soon. I like to close the fridge and leave the bowl on the floor before going to bed.

Sometimes, in the pharmacy, I like to look at the pill sorters with the days of the week typed on them neatly. I like to imagine picking one up and buying it. I like to think about putting vitamins and mints in each one. I like to imagine taking the same pills every morning as if diligence alone would make me better. I like the way my dad dumps the pills out of his sorter onto his tv tray each morning and mostly forgets to take them. I like to believe that the piles belong to me and he is well. I like the ritual of filling the pill sorters as a favor for future me. I like the idea that planning and preparation would fix it all.

I’d like to feel better and get to eat that imaginary cake.