The Sunday Morning Ritual

Pills and more pills. Pills for arthritis, blood pressure and cholesterol. Pills for depression, diabetes and dizziness.

I sigh as I pull the plastic bottles, one by one, out of my storage bag.

I line them up - morning pills on my right, evening pills on my left. Those I take twice a day are placed with the evening lineup. I always start with the evening ones. Don’t know why.

I reach for the blue and yellow pill box, open the seven tiny lids marked “P.M.”, and count out the pills, placing one in each compartment. I move the twice daily pills to the morning group, otherwise, the once-a-day pills are tossed back in the bag.

Then I grab the next container.

Red ones, blue ones, green ones, white ones. Round ones, oval ones, oblong ones. Even a heart-shaped one. Tablets, caplets, gel caps and more tablets.

Argghh!

Every Sunday morning, it’s the same routine. After coffee and breakfast. After reading the paper and the comics.

I stop and look at the lineup of bottles, like little soldiers ready to attack my body’s ailments, trying to slow the aging process.

I hate that my body has changed for the worse.

Why didn’t I take better care of myself? I never had these aches, pains, ailments and illnesses when I was younger.

I try to remember when I started feeling the aches and pains, when my body cried, “Enough!”

Joints creaking, blood pressure rising, pancreas slowing, prostate growing.

Was I that oblivious and naive to think I wouldn’t be affected by the smoking, drinking and partying every night? Getting 3 hours of sleep, then jumping out of bed and dashing off to work.

I thought I would live forever.

Or worse, never make it to middle age.

World events were scary back then. The threat of nuclear wipeout. The cold war. Both sides suspicious of each other. Billions of dollars and millions of lives wasted. What were our governments thinking?

And yet here I am. Still alive. Growing older, my body deteriorating. Popping pills to get through the day.

My mind snaps to the present. I look at the two rows of plastic containers, morning and evening. Standing at attention. Ready to do battle. Waiting to be counted and stored.

I sigh, reaching for the next bottle.

Another Sunday morning, another ritual.