Memory Medicine

We all have those déjà vu moments that bring back a flood of memories, and I recently had one myself. For the past month or so, every time I talked to son David on the phone, his every few words were interrupted with a dry cough. Of course, whenever I mentioned it, he got defensive. “I’m fine Mom! Geez!” he replied in typical macho guy fashion. Then he’d explain that he felt great, was working out, and running regularly. Still, the next time we talked, that dry cough continued. A veteran of many bouts of bronchial pneumonia since I was two years old, I happen to know that a persistent, dry cough can be a dangerous implication, so when I spoke to him again and still heard the cough, I insisted that he go to the doctor.

I was pleasantly surprised when he showed up at the door this afternoon explaining that he was starting a new job next week that included weekend work, so he thought he’d come home for the weekend as it might be a while before he had the chance again. Then he told me that, thankfully, he’d made an appointment at a nearby medical center. He was gone for a while, and then called me to say that he was on his way to see his girlfriend who had returned with him. That’s when he reluctantly told me that he had a sinus infection and that the doctor had also done a chest x-ray and was admittedly a bit shocked that he had bronchitis as well. Feeling as well as he did was a testament to his good physical shape, but as I told him, he could have been quickly laid out for months (or worse) if he hadn’t attended to the problem.

Anyway, David said that he would pick up his prescriptions on his way home, and, after all, he is a grown man, as much as I hate to admit it. But did he pick up his medications including cough medicine? Nooo. “I’ll get it tomorrow,” he said as he headed for his old bedroom, hacking as he proceeded.

“Wait, I have some over-the-counter stuff,” I persisted (to his exasperation). “At least take one teaspoon so you’ll sleep better.”

I headed down the hall toward him with bottle and spoon in hand when it all came back to me.

When he was little, I’d pour his liquid medicine into a shot glass and in my worst John Wayne impression would say, “I don’t know pahdnah. This is some strong liquid. Why I’ve seen some of the toughest cowboys in the West fall flat over after drinkin’ this stuff.”

He’d always rise to the challenge saying in that little duck voice that kids have, “Give it to me Mistah. I can take it!”

“I’m worried,” I’d reply. “This stuff is stronger than rattlesnake venom or a poisoned arrow.”

At that point, the little guy would grab it, down it, and grin at me triumphantly.

I would respond with some version of “Why, I can’t believe you’re still standin'! You must be the toughest hombre in the whole Wild West.”

He’d smile, laugh with delight, and walk off.

As he stood there in the hall looking at me with frustration, I poured a spoonful and said, “I don’t know cowboy, this stuff is pretty stiff.”

“I can’t believe I used to fall for that Mama propaganda,” he said, downing the spoonful of syrup. Then he gave me a big grin and sauntered into his room to bunk down.