Sometimes, it’s best left unread.
I check out nutrition statistics on cups of yogurt and I read the three-page essay my pharmacist puts in the bag with my new blood pressure medication. I actually read the terms and conditions that pop up on my
computer, insisting I agree or else. Stuff like, “We may, from time to time, revise these terms and conditions.” I click “agree,” even though it says I will pay all applicable fees and my subscription will be automatically renewed on my credit card. I have to, or I can’t go to the next text box. Yikes.
I absorb dire warnings about side effects from over-the-counter and prescription medications, even though they scare the bejeezus out of me. The last possibility, if I stick it out to the end of the list, is often “sudden death.”
I learn that, if I avoid a quick and unexpected demise, I might expect dizziness, upset stomach, muscle cramps, irregular heartbeat, insomnia, rash, chills, hair loss, dry mouth, abdominal bloating, slurred speech, itching, swelling, depression or suicidal thoughts.
I wonder.
If someone starts a new medication, then experiences a symptom, does she get her own personal symptom placed on the list? Even if she is the only one? Is “upset stomach” included because some obese slob entered a pie-eating contest the day after he started taking atenelol, then consumed 10 cherry pies within eight minutes? How many pill-takers have to barf in order for this symptom to make the list?
I experience mild anxiety when I have to swallow large pills. I can do small tablets, capsules, gel caps, and caplets coated with something slippery. But big dry lozenges that stick to your tongue and threaten
to go down your esophagus sideways? It’s enough to launch a siege of dry mouth, vertigo and suicidal thoughts.
I bought some vitamins recently. In the olden days, vitamin packages showed a picture of the actual pill, actual size. You could see it right there on the outside of the box.
These days, I have to guess how big the vitamins are. I shake the bottle. I search for a picture. I ask the pharmacist, who usually has no idea. I’ve guessed wrong a couple of times, which
means I pass unused vitamins on to family members or friends who don’t share my phobia.
I finally found some vitamins smaller than AA Duracells. The brand? One A Day. It’s boldly printed on the bottle.
The dosage? Two tablets. That’s fine with me. I can do two if they're small. But not everybody reads the fine print. Shouldn’t these vitamins be called Two A Day?
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