No amount of coffee brought me to life this week. Every day required patient endurance. Burrowing under the covers carries more appeal to me right now than writing. But if I push through, the completed task might help.
So… onward.
I felt a little more like myself after the snow melted last weekend, but a trip to the pharmacy changed all that Monday morning.
“I’m sorry,” the pharmacist offered, “but your doctor hasn’t refilled your prescription yet.”
“But someone called me Friday afternoon and said it would be ready this morning,” I balked.
“I don’t know what to tell you, but it’s not in our system.”
Frustrated but calm, I dialed the number I know all too well. Then called it again a few hours later. And several more times throughout the day.
To no avail.
When I went to bed Monday night, I’d been without Effexor for twenty-four hours. I hoped withdrawal symptoms wouldn’t kick in for at least another day. But I woke to electric brain spasms.
You know that feeling when you shock your finger in an electric outlet? It’s kind of like that. But in your brain. When I moved around too much, they went off like mini-fireworks.
Thankfully, a kind pharmacist went to bat for me. So, by 11:15, my phone rang with the news that my prescription was being filled.
Safe in the slow lane, I drove twenty minutes, fighting the odd feeling in my head. When I stood on pavement again, the sensations calmed and I found my way to the queue line. However, when I reached the front, I heard, “I’m sorry mam, but your prescription isn’t filled yet. We’ll pull it up now, but you’ll have to wait."
Between last week's Emory debacle and the shock waves in my brain, I shut down and sank into a corner of the pharmacy. Far from the waiting area filled with sick people, I leaned my head against the wall, numb.
There, I forced my thoughts to someone waiting in a much worse situation than me: Andrew Bunson—the pastor jailed in turkey. Totally overwhelmed by my situation, I prayed, without much feeling, for the man whose wait far exceeded mine.
A woman approached, “Are you okay? Do you need a sandwich or something?”
“No, thank you,” I lied, “I just need the medicine I’m waiting on.”
I rambled on more than I probably should've before she simply stated, “Well, you look pretty…” and moved on. But with that, I fell apart.
I didn’t feel pretty. I felt undone. Dizzy. Off kilter. So, when a stranger paused to encourage me, the kindness cracked my shell. My prayers for Pastor Bunson stopped, and tears fell.
When I had my feet reconstructed a few years ago, I practiced seeing beyond my need and pain, and tried to focus on others with greater problems than my own. But there in the corner of the pharmacy, I completely caved to my own weariness.
(And even after a few more days of living, I still feel an unusual heaviness.)
Thirty minutes after the compliment, my name appeared on the board and I paid for—and then swallowed—a much-needed pill. From there I walked back to my car, got some food in a drive through, and drove to the other side of town where thirty to forty kids awaited my arrival.
Each forward step took effort.
However, once settled, I spent the next two hours teaching musical parts from Mary Poppins. The time passed faster than I expected. When the room emptied and I sank to the floor, I realized how therapeutic it had been to sing A Spoon Full of Sugar on such a funky, odd day.
Thoroughly exhausted, I bought dinner out and headed home. There, the glumness returned.
A morning eye appointment downtown revealed sobering news which didn't help. My close up double vision needs now push the limits of what corrective lenses provide. So, if they get worse, I’ll need to patch an eye or undergo surgery.
A new pair of glasses will help for a while and hopefully longer. I pick them up next week. But between the snowed-in crazy, the belabored refill, and my loosey goosey eye muscles, a medical sadness is trying to take up residence in my soul.
What to do? Listen to Graham Cooke. Clean a bathroom. Make my bed. Indulge in a cinnamon scone. Savor a few Hallmark happy endings. And listen to Graham Cooke again.
In time, as I press forward and refuse to give in, heaven will break through. "Jesus looked at them and said, 'With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible' (Matthew 19: 26 NIV).
All photos courtesy of pixabay.com
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