In her later years, my mother, Mary, took a variety of pills. She took blood thinners, plus pills for blood pressure, acid reflux, and diabetes to name a few. She kept these pills in an old salt beef bucket that she kept in her bedroom and carted to the kitchen once a week to re-fill her weekly pill case.
Mary had this ritual for years and every time she filled that case, she always commented on the number of pills she took.
"See this," she said, pointing to the pile of pills. "That's pretty good now, isn't it? How would you like that?" She was disgusted with the pills and her need of them.
Mom came home from an outing on one occasion after having met one of her friends who was the same age. "You know, she doesn't take a pill," she said. "Not one pill. I told her what I was taking and she couldn't believe it. She hardly sees a doctor. How lucky is that?"
About two months later, Mom phoned, upset. Her friend was dead.
I commented, "Mom, maybe she'd still be alive if she was taking a bucketful of pills too."
Mom never said a word about the pills again. Meanwhile I have a beef bucket on stand-by.
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