[ getting back to life ]

Bothersome procedure finally at bay, I found myself in possession of a prescription for citalopram - Celexa, for the untrained.  It has been found effective for countless other Veterans who ache as I do, who worry as I do, who suffer as I do.  I would be the next guinea pig.

Twenty two stairs and one hundred fourteen paces separated my prescription and the pharmacy, and I covered the ground swiftly, but pensively.  The waiting area was strangely vacant, and when I pushed the square green button for my window ticket, I saw I was next in line.

After only two minutes, a voice, both robotic and feminine, announced “Now serving number A-1-2-4, at window number two.”  I approached the window, and was pleased to see a familiar face.  The woman who asked for my identification had done so many times over the last several months.  Though she is familiar to me, I am surely unknown to her; to her I am simply known as Last Name, Last Four.

After entering my information and looking over my prescription history, she admonished me not to take tramadol and citalopram together.  I nodded in silent understanding.  She asked if I would like a print-out of my new drug’s side effects.  I nodded again, and said I would.

As the woman turned to retrieve my medication, I looked her over, and considered her once again.  She is quite an attractive woman.  Short, fit, long straight hair with aged but striking features.  Not overly polite, but certainly not impolite, which is a rarity in the world of military medical care.  She did her job quickly, quietly, and efficiently.

Just as my thoughts began to drift elsewhere, she returned with my information sheets and medication, asked if I had any questions, and wished me a good day.

As I left the pharmacy, I looked over the label, noting the drug name “citalopram” and the designer name “Celexa”.  Twenty milligrams, thirty tablets, to be taken by mouth, once per day.  Above my name, in blue pen, perched a smiley face.  This struck me as odd, but upon imagining its origin, I began to feel better.  Not jumping for joy better, mind you, just, a bit better.  I wondered if every prescription issued by this woman bore the familiar symbol of good cheer.  I wondered if such an act might be an attempt to stand out from her peers, either for herself or for her Quality of Service rating on customer satisfaction surveys.

But then I allowed myself to feel special, if only just a bit.  I imagined she offered this small gesture only to me; an acknowledgement of the gruff and droopy-eyed Soldier who stood before her, seeking anti-depressants.  This raised my spirits, and I covered the remaining distance to work already feeling the effects of the medication I had not yet taken.

Were it not for that smiley face, for those two short, straight vertical strokes, underscored by one longer, horizontally curved stroke, I would not have thought anything of the small, plastic container in my hand.  I certainly would not have thought enough of it to write such an exhaustive and unnecessarily detailed recount of the procurement of that container.

As it was, in that space, if for just a few moments, I felt OK.  I had my medication, and it was smiling at me.