Sunday, April 5, 2009

The Phenergan Song

I was beginning to worry about her. That is, until we were on our way home and she started making up a song about Phenergan. At that point, I began to feel a bit of relief and even amusement at her sudden change in demeanor. A migraine that wouldn’t go away had been plaguing Mary for days, and it wasn’t getting any better. She had called the doctor’s office earlier to make an appointment so she could get some relief. I drove her to her appointment, where the doctor gave her a shot of Phenergan, a drug with powerful sedative properties, after which the doctor asked her to hang around for about fifteen minutes to make sure she didn’t have an allergic reaction to it. As we sat in the waiting room, I looked at her prescriptions. One was for Tylox, a major pain reliever, and another was for more Phenergan—wait, did I read that right?—suppositories? Ok, first… eww. Second, why on earth suppositories? And third, the prescription was written as follows:
30 Phenergan suppositories, one by mouth daily as needed. By mouth? Again, eww.
“Sweetie, did you know that she gave you suppositories?” I whispered.
“Thoshe go innn your booty!” she exclaimed, slurring and giggling, causing everyone in the office to look our way with curious glances.
“Yes, Pumpkin, I know,” I said quietly as I tried to contain her. “The doctor prescribed suppositories instead of pills for you. Did you know that?”
Turning to me with glassy eyes and a silly grin, she looked around before loudly whispering, “She gave me pills for my booty, but that’s icky, so I’m, I’m… not eeeven gonna get that one filled.” Then, with a giggle and a surreptitious glance around the room, she put a finger to her lips and slurred a stealthy “Shhhhhh.” As Mary was quickly slipping into a Phenergan–induced stupor, I thought it best to head home, as it was clear by now that the only reaction she was having was not the kind that required medical attention. We gathered our things and headed for the door so I could get her to bed to sleep it off. Before we could make it out, she turned around and waved to the remaining patients in the waiting room. “Bye, everbodeee!” It’s amazing what one shot can do. Just an hour earlier she was quiet and sullen. Her face looked weak and overwhelmed, eyes tired and squinting. But now, in the car headed to the pharmacy, she’s giggling and singing like a four year old.

Phenergan, I love Phenergan… but nothing rhymes with Phenergan…why is that?
Maybe cinnamon, or cinna-mergen, but it’s reeeeeally hard to rhyme words with Phenergan They gave me a shot in the booty—and it HURT, too! Hee hee… I said booty
Phenergan, Phenergan… even though it makes my head spin-ergen, I love Phenergan

As we pulled up to the drive through window at our local pharmacy, I saw Angie, one of the techs we know and love, coming to the window. Before I could warn her of Mary’s exceedingly carefree condition, Mary leaned forward in her seat and blurted out, “Hiiii, Angieeee! I got a shot of Phenergan in the booty! And there are no words, noooo words that rhyme with Phenergan, didjoo know that?” Angie raised her eyebrows and looked at me.
“Wow, you did get a shot, didn’t you?” she replied.
“In the booty!” Mary repeated. Handing Angie the prescription, we chatted about this and that while Mary continued singing in the background. As we were waiting, Angie handed us some candy to try.
“It’s like a Heath bar, but not as hard. Crunchier. It’s really good,” I said, munching on it. Mary had stopped singing and was licking the chocolate and toffee off of her fingers.
“Mmmmm, chocolate,” she said, her eyes darting back and forth as if plotting a search for more. I paid for the drugs, exchanged a smile and a laugh with Angie, and we headed for home. The singing had come to an end, and Mary was now in a heavy-eyed daze. As she staggered into the house, she said, “Do you wanna see where I got my shot? They shot me right, right here…” She fiddled clumsily trying to find where her shirt ended and her jeans started. “It’s right here on my booty, and it hurt!” As she searched unsuccessfully for her wound, spinning awkwardly like a dog trying to catch its own tail, I steered her toward the bedroom.
“I bet you’re ready to lie down for a while, aren’t you?” I said soothingly. Raising both arms over her head touchdown-style, she giggled, “Nappytime!!” She quickly got settled on the bed, covered up with a quilt, and asked for an extra blanket. When I returned with it, she had thrown the quilt aside.
“Do you not want the quilt, sweetie?” I asked.
“I do, but, um, I want the blanket on me first, and then, and then the quilt, um, on top of it ‘cause it’s better that way.” As I tucked her in, she sobered slightly. “You’re not gonna write about this, are you?”
“Of course not, sweetie. Night-night.”