The Thread

I remember clearly the bathroom medicine and sink cabinets at my home growing up.  They contained what seemed to a young, healthy, immortal guy like me an inordinate amount of pills, tablets, ointments, etc. Some were new-ish, some had expired in decades gone by.  To be sure, in retrospect, some were surely mine; cherry cough medicine was definitely among the bunch.

But the sheer number of orange prescription bottles and OTC boxes and tubes of creams with unpronounceable names was disturbing.  I’m sure within my young mind, I felt sorry for my parents, who were apparently descending with the aid of various and multiple pharmaceuticals into their “old” age.  I’m sure I held tight to the surety that I would never need such a menagerie of drugs.  I would grow up and keep a few bandages for all of the adventures I would go on, and maybe some ibuprofen for my tired, well-toned muscles.

Flash forward 30+ years, and our medicine cabinets (plural) are a modern homage to pharmaceutical excess. When the Zombie Apocalypse FINALLY gets here, I’m hoping the undead are allergic to some combination of prescription eye drops, pantoprazole, Phenergan, 0.1% Fluocinonide, hydrocodone and misc nasal decongestants.  If so, you’re all invited to rally at my house – we’ll be able to hold them off indefinitely.