I had to stop by the pharmacy on my way to mum’s. I had grown incredibly intimate with the pharmacy environment over the years. I was essentially mum’s designated care giver, ever since dad and Tom went away, and it was an intricate job. Mum’s medical situation was an endlessly complex ordeal, which given the nature of her unusual condition, was understandable. After dad left, she started to deteriorate rapidly and still, 20 years later, no course of treatment had been successful. All this time later, I’m still confused by it. At first it was just a vague sense that her body was changing. Nobody could have predicted the ways and extent in which her body was destined to transform. Her pain was constant during the period I now call the ‘metamorphose’. After the first five years, it grew increasingly apparent that mum’s body was slowly turning into one big arm. After ten years, the transformation into an arm was complete. Since that point, she’d remained bedridden — my mother’s warm, loving head now sat atop a grotesque, hairy, body-sized arm.
We have dedicated a substantial amount of time talking to doctors of all varieties in the hope that we’ll find a solution to my mother’s dilemma. Even knowing how such a malady is possible would provide me with some solace. No documented evidence exists that suggest my mother’s symptoms have been seen before. Doctors love the ambiguity of it all. My mother is a cipher that, if cracked, could lead to a prestigious journal article. I don’t know what passes for fame in the world of medicine, but it’s clear that my mother is viewed as a key in which attaining it might be possible. My mother is subjected to all manner of bizarre tests and medicines. It won’t be long until every medicine currently available will have coursed through her system. One week she’ll be taking heart medication and the next she’ll undergo a treatment for lupus. And with each new change in her chemical landscape, a new set of side effects emerge. These are usually mild, but every now and then, my mother is at the mercy of side effects no living person should have to endure. I encourage this course of action. Intellectually I know that it’s fruitless, but still, I’m always at hand, making sure she’s taking whatever pill is on the menu this week. Each new pill I place on her tongue runs the risk of damage and yet I still place the pill.
There’s only one pharmacy I’ve ever been to. They understand my mother’s situation and know better than to ask invasive questions when I pick up medication. They live in a basement underneath a pornographic bookstore a few minutes from work. Even without a prescription, I get the sense they’d give me anything I asked for. They don’t enjoy substantial patronage, other than the occasional porn connoisseur, so the money I give them is always received gratefully.
You have to walk through the bookstore in order to reach the stairs that lead to the pharmacy. I’ve succumb to pornographic desires on more than one occasion as a result. When you can’t shake the thought of death, sometimes a distraction is in order, so today was a day in which I indulged my carnal desires. I’m not much of a fetishist, but I couldn’t pass up a magazine devoted to ‘wool mouth’ or, ‘the sexual desire to stuff your mouth with wool’. The woman on the cover found a way to blend the ridiculous and the alluring. Lustful eyes, mouth overflowing with red wool. I paid for the magazine, tucked it under my arm and made for the pharmacy.
Lacking natural light and victim to decades of neglect, the pharmacy wasn’t a pleasing environment. It was a perfect accompaniment to the illnesses they specialised in treating. Health posters from the 70s still adorned the walls and spreading damp coloured the low ceiling. Against the far wall sat the counter. As ever, standing proud and round behind the counter was Arthur Pecks, the world’s most socially inept pharmacist.
“Huzzah, Bruce!” said Arthur upon spotting me. He reached out his arm to give my hand a shake. Our hands met, he shook and forgot to let go. Five minutes went by, ten minutes went by — at the 15 minute mark I had to request an end to the shake. With a bumbling apology, he broke the hand lock and grovelled, bowed and curtsied before losing his footing and falling backward into poorly assembled and overly laden shelves. This wasn’t unusual. A long, wooden stick was propped against the counter for this exact purpose. I shoved the stick into the collapse and fished Arthur out. After struggling to his feet, he simply asked, ‘So what’ll it be today, Bruce?”
This month’s prescription called for Sulfasalazine, which was most commonly used in the treatment of Crohns and Colitis. I handed the prescription to Arthur.
“Oh boy! This is a good’n. I used to live on the stuff in 'Nam,” said Arthur.
Knowing full well that Arthur had never fought in Vietnam, I simply smiled politely and took a seat while he prepared my mother’s chemical feast. Listening to Arthur forage around behind the counter had always amused me. He never failed to break or knock something over. He was possibly the clumsiest person I’d ever met. Despite his chronically accident prone tendencies, he always maintained such a positive mood. I was the kind of person who flew into a brief fury at the mildest hiccup. Arthur’s positive attitude was bound to grant him an extended, albeit dangerous, life.
Despite being the only customer in the store, Arthur still found it necessary to announce my name in an officious tone when the prescription was ready. I took the drugs, and against my better judgment, participated in another painfully extended handshake before leaving.
Other than pulling over briefly to masturbate while indulging in ‘wool-mouthed sluts’, I headed straight to my mother's. I spent most of the drive mentally rehearsing the best way to break the cancer news to her. I wondered if perhaps a comical approach would work but ousted that idea when I remembered that laughter made her nose bleed. I had to be upfront. It would be like tearing off a Band-Aid. Just get the critical dialogue out and spend the rest of the time dealing with the aftermath. Whenever my inner coward reared its head, I reminded myself that this was better than her finding out about my death one day without context. It was with this resolve that I lurched up her driveway.
With the assistance of nerves, the pain in my stomach kicked up a few million notches. Vomit climbed my throat like mercury in a thermometer. A flush of diarrhea swam through my bowel, begging for release. I clenched every muscle, shut my eyes and focused on breathing. I don’t know how long I was involved in this for, but when my eyes eventually opened I was feeling somewhat better. Before my body had a chance to turn against me again, I escaped the car and made a beeline for the front door.
My mother’s house was a time capsule. Without the benefit of easy mobility, her home was virtually untouched. A cleaner came by once a week to tackle dust accumulation and remove garbage but that was it. For this reason, her home had a distinct early 80s luster. This environmental stasis filled me with comfort. I always knew what to expect and being reluctant to embrace change, this was superficially a good thing. I could always watch the residual echo of a childhood version of me running through the house. These nostalgic echoes have the strange ability to project abject happiness… no matter how little it rings true.