(I wrote this blog entry before leaving for the Pole but somehow forgot to copy it from my desktop computer. So I'm posting it after the fact, but the date is correct :) )
Have you ever felt like James Bond--flying around the world, shooting people up with all kinds of cool gadgets whose user manuals you've never read? Yeah, me either. I've traveled more than most in my 27 years—soon I will have seen all the continents save Africa and South America—but I've never felt like a spy. That is, not until earlier this week. And I have to say, it was definitely the drugs...
No, not that kind of drugs! Here, let me explain.
I have this list of things I'm hoping to finish before I leave. It is long and unreasonable (for example, I have "Finish Analysis" on my list...it might as well say "Write Thesis"). These unattainable expectations are starting to pile up and make me feel a bit scattered and frazzled. But one of these things happened to be within reach: "Go to Doctor." There, that's easy enough! So I did. I went to the doctor and I managed to convince her to write me a bunch of prescriptions to take to the Pole. (I have those irritating sinus problems that many of you may remember--you know, surgery blah blah.) So I left and went to the pharmacy where she had called them in. After being given the pager and waiting the obligatory 20 minutes—which I spent perusing the ever-present fashion magazine complete with dead foxes draped “alluringly” around the emaciated shoulders of undernourished supermodels—the pager buzzed. With relief I put aside my magazine and was greeted at the counter by a knowledgeable-looking elderly chap:
"Let’s see, we have a number of prescriptions for you. Some of these you’ve had before and others not. Here, this one you ought to be familiar with." He pulls out the amoxicillin. "Three times a day, with or without food—as you like,” he smiles, “until it's gone—that’s very important: if you get sick you must take them all. Hopefully it won't be necessary."
"Ah, yes, the nasal spray. Indeed, I think this particular brand might be new to you..." and he extolled the virtues of the new one as compared with the previous generation.
When he pulled out something brand new he gave me a long verbal explanation, a physical demonstration, and then told me in no uncertain terms to carefully read the in-depth packet from the pharmaceutical company before I actually touched it. (It was face cream!)
And that’s when I learned that my pharmacist is Q. (Does that mean that Albrecht is actually Judy Dench?) I wished I had a way to dramatically burn up the instructions right in front of him, Bond style, but alas being a non-smoker occasionally has its drawbacks.
By the time I left I was feeling very well-equipped, not to mention pretty cool. (And I must add that any pharmacist who can somehow make you feel like James Bond when you’re clearly some invalid freak on lots of meds is a pharmacist worth going back for.) How cool exactly? -23 degrees Fahrenheit.