When I first phoned the Old Man, he was toasting.
When I phoned him for the second time, he had got out of breath coming to answer the phone, and he called me by the Deceased Lady’s name.
He took a while to find the deep box with the red dots — and he counted the dots!
I told him to open the curtains.
“Amlodipine,” he said — so he had the wrong box!
He found and swallowed the lansoprazole.
In searching for dispersible aspirin, he offered lansoprazole again. Then he offered amlodipine again. (The dispersible aspirin and the amlodipine packages are both yellow, and I had told him to look for a yellow package.)
He found, dissolved and swallowed the dispersible aspirin.
When I phoned for the second morning session, the Old Man answered on the second ring.
The Old Man swallowed his gliclazide, bendroflumethiazide and amlodipine. He found the levothyroxine, and I told him to look for the co-codamol.
“I haven’t got anything open,” he said, which I took to mean that he had closed the sandwich-box.
The Old Man swallowed 2x co-codamol, and a levothyroxine.
Would that all medication sessions were so easy!
I asked whether he had had a good night’s sleep.
“Not too bad.”
At 10:55 I phoned the Old Man, who told me that he was going to have soup for lunch. I informed him that his washing was now drying.
“I thought you’d gone back to Suburbia Somnolenta,” he said, sounding puzzled.
The Old Man didn’t know that today was Saturday.
I began the evening medication session ten minutes or so before the England v USA football match in South Africa kicked off.
“I’ll just turn the light on,” said the Old Man.
“Film-coated toilets,” said the Old Man, reading from the simvastatin packaging.
“Tablets,” I corrected him.
He thought ferrous sulphate tablets were brown-and-white. Was he thinking of lansoprazole, or was he looking at a lansoprazole tablet?
“Shiny white pallets,” he said of ferrous sulphate. I didn’t correct him.
This was another medication session that went smoothly.
[Original posting 12 June 2011]