A trip to the pharmacy

I am the “pill person” of the family. And in any family in which there is an 82 year old man with multiple medical problems, it’s quite necessary to have a “pill person” who is available, on call, 24 hours day, to answer pill questions or call in emergency supplies of forgotten meds. This weekend, as my mom boarded her flight to Edmonton, I got a frantic last minute phone call. My dad had just informed her that he was out of atenolol. (Good timing, dad.) Was atenolol important? It’s the pill that controls his irregular heart rhythm and prevents him from having a heart attack. So yes, I’d say his atenolol was important. He would need a refill sometime before Saturday morning.

I arrived in Toronto at 4pm on Friday. Have you ever driven in Toronto at 4pm on Friday? Not a glowing recommendation from my end. But yet as Toby started doing running jump kicks at the china cabinet and my dad banged his cane on the floor, lamenting the fact that my mother had gone to Edmonton without him and that he hadn’t been out of the house ALL DAY LONG, the drive across Toronto to the pharmacy didn’t seem like THAT bad of an idea.

It took me a little while to gather my boys up. Dad with his cane, and his big orthopedic shoes and his wheel chair; Toby, with his feisty abhorance of foot wear and various balls, books and snacks that would be required of a potentially long car ride. I was already STARTING to wonder just how good of an idea this outing was even before we were out the door.

About halfway across Toronto, in bumper to bumper traffic my father leaned forward and asked me, “Lyssie - -where are we going?”

“To get your pills”

“Oh.”

Five minutes later he quietly remarked, “Well I don’t know where you think my pills are but THIS sure isn’t the right way to go!”

If I hadn’t been going less than 20km/hr I would have slammed on the brakes.

Now here’s a fun game- - try asking an elderly man with a poor memory which pharmacy he goes to.

At first he came out with some vague, “OH YOU know…the one with that nice pharmacist with the glasses.” When asked for more specifics he confidently announced that the pharmacy was not, in fact, ON a street. Or at least, the street didn’t have a name.

Dad – this is TORONTO. EVERY street has a name.

Well, this one street that contained HIS Pharmacy DIDN’T.

Luckily I continued to drive because I was half way there and my dad’s credibility was murky at best. When finally we arrived at the pharmacy I THOUGHT he used, my dad perked up.

“OH…I know where we are, now!” (I pointed out to him that the street DID have a name – for next time). As we unloaded my dad, his cane, the wheelchair, the kid, the shoes he had kicked off and the waiting-in-line-at-the-pharmacy snacks, books and activities that he required, my dad congratulated me on having FOUND his pharmacy.

He casually asked what we were getting and I told him it was for his atenolol.

“Well, that’s very interesting that they have them for you,” he thought outloud, “Usually I have to call in advance…”