"Just give me the [long and vicious stream of profanity] codeine!" was what I wanted to scream, but didn't, as I waited in the pharmacy. I'd met with my doctor, nodded when she told me to take antibiotics, asked politely for something that would ease the cough and help me sleep, and grouchily proceeded through traffic to go pick up medicines.
There I waited some more, watching people come with money and leave with precious chemical compounds that would fix - or at least help - what was broken. I heard good things about steroids, wondered if I might like to try them at some point, then returned to daydreaming about my favorites, the narcotics. Ah... precious pain-killing, sleep-inducing drugs. But I watched the man with a ponytail and giant tattoo stand behind an older woman in a tweed suit and gorgeous heels, and thought that we were drawn together as disparate members of society in our quest for prescription medicines. Then my name was called - replacement cough syrup found and packaged - and I happily paid the fee (less than $1 for the syrup with codeine. Why is that?) and walked back to my car, translucent white bag swinging at my side.
I inched toward home, still cursing at the drivers who were in my way, pausing to cough and blow my nose.
"Will I ever feel better?" I asked Doctor after she'd clicked the squares and pressed the buttons to send the Rx to the pharmacy for me. "Because I hurt all over - my ears and head and neck and shoulders and even the muscles in my torso! With the coughing and gagging and lack of sleep!"
"Soon," she said. "Hopefully by the time this weekend ends, you'll be good as new."