I was laying on mom and dad’s couch yesterday. I wasn’t feeling good. Mom was tiresomely asking me one hundred questions as my heart beat furiously in my chest. I was trying to calm down. I was on the verge of a panic attack. Dad was in the kitchen cooking vegetable beef soup and cornbread. In a few moments, Charlie walked inside the kitchen door to eat with us.
“You look terrible,” Charlie said as he rubbed my hair. “Is their anything I could do for you?”
“Buy me a six pack of ice beer,” I said jokingly. “I would forget what ails me.”
Charlie laughed. You could hear dad laugh in the kitchen as he said, “No beer for you silly!”
“Seriously, though,” I told Charlie. “Tell dad to give me two more Klonopin to take. I badly need them right now. I fear the two I took is not enough to stop this attack.”
“Johnny?” my mother said. “Give Andrew two more Klonopin!”
A few moments later, Charlie walked into the den with two pills in his hand.
“Don’t say I never did anything for you,” Charlie said handing me two more Klonopin.
You could hear the feel good police, dad, grumble from within the kitchen.
It took thirty minutes, but then I was feeling as right as rain. I put on my shoes. Dad fixed me a bowl of soup. And I drove home. I was in the bed at eight and slept until four this morning. It literally takes an act of Congress for me to get extra medications for when I am feeling ill. And I am prescribed these extra medications just for these events.