Now that they were home again, he made the trek to the Giant Eagle’s pharmacy department to refill their prescriptions. It was cheaper than the CVS in East Liberty, and if he sometimes had to wait, he could use the ATM or pick up items Emily had forgotten. All of their information was in their system, yet he still brought the scribbled slip from the doctor, as if they might question him. The co-pays were always changing, the prices outrageous. Despite its claims, Medicare didn’t cover everything, and like most Americans their age, they took a lot of pills. The size of the crosshatched plastic reminders he and Emily relied on—organized by the days of the week, further divided into slots for morning, noon and night like a tackle box—had become a morbid joke among the children. When Emily turned her ankle, the nurse in the emergency room asked if she was taking any medications. Between the two of them, they couldn’t remember all the names. From then on, tempting fate, Henry kept a list of his in his wallet.
Lipitor he took for his cholesterol, like all of the Fearsome Foursome.
Prilosec let him eat stuffed banana peppers and marinara sauce and drink his scotch.
Warfarin was a blood thinner he took at bedtime to reduce the chance of a stroke, though he noticed now he bled more easily.
Lisinopril replaced metoprolol for his blood pressure, still so high that Emily had stopped salting their food, substituting Mrs. Dash and lemon juice.
Lasix processed excess water and helped with his blood pressure, but, according to the fine print, might have caused his light-headedness at Chautauqua, a question he meant to ask Dr. Prasad.
Klor-Con, a potassium supplement, he couldn’t take on an empty stomach, knocking it back it after breakfast, before he brushed his teeth.
Dulcolax, which Emily had recommended, kept him regular enough.
Flomax, in the commercials, was supposed to turn his weak stream into a Niagara, but only made him go more often.
Glucophage treated his blood sugar, which hovered on the borderline of prediabetes.
Neurontin, which he took three times a day, tasted like banana and didn’t completely stop the needle-like pains in the soles of his feet.
Lumigan was an eye drop for glaucoma he took at night that stung and left his vision too blurry to read.
Ambien he’d quit taking because it didn’t always work, and when it did, made him groggy in the morning.
Centrum Silver was the multivitamin Jeff’s place gave its older patients.
Vicodin he had left over from his knee. Margaret said it was dangerous, but when a storm was coming and Advil wasn’t enough, he was glad he had it.
Aleve, Bufferin, NyQuil, DayQuil, Sudafed, Benadryl—the medicine cabinet was full of antihistamines and analgesics for colds and bug bites and minor aches and pains like his back after weeding. Emily had read somewhere that aspirin was bad for the kidneys and Tylenol mixed with alcohol did liver damage, so he was more likely after golfing or mowing the lawn to ask her to rub some Ben-Gay into his shoulders, but not often. He tried to stay active, walking Rufus three times a day, twice when it rained, and while she complained about her hands every night at bedtime, showing him her swollen knuckles—just a blur, after his drops—he was grateful, at his age, that there was nothing seriously wrong with him. Most of the time he felt fine.