I pick out the peach colored ones, take a deep breath, then exhale. I place the three pills on my tongue, not too far back neither too far forward. Now the water. I raise the cup to my lips and tilt it towards my mouth just at the right angle. I don’t want to take in too much water, nor too little.
“Shit!” As soon as I the water streams in I know it’s too much.
I hesitate a split second, too long—I shudder and quickly gulp down more water—the water melted the pills. The bitterness spreads, coating the back of my tongue.
Yesterday, I took in too little water and the pills stuck in the back of my throat. The bitterness, stuck in the back of my throat. Water wasn’t enough to wash them down. I stuffed the next two pills into my mouth, raised the cup to my lips, tilted it, and swallowed once, twice, and one more time to wash away all remnants. And a fourth time, just in case.
My anti-seizure meds, peach colored, shield shaped, are the worst tasting pills I have ever taken. More often than not, when I take them, I end up with shudder-worthy bitterness in my mouth, whether I swallow one at a time, or the entire dose at once. Bitter is bitter—it makes sense to just do the whole lot in one go.
I will probably have to take anti-seizure meds the rest of my life.