I was in Walmart the other day and noticed for the first time as I walked by the pharmacy, a medication disposal box for the public. It had a sign on it that said they were sorry but it was full. I guess a lot of people have been getting rid of their old drugs lately.
I do think it's a good idea as well as convenient that old pills and
medications now can be dropped off for proper disposal at designated police
stations or in medication disposal boxes at pharmacies and other locations. For
one thing, it’s a safe way to get rid of pharmaceutical products that could be
a danger to both society and the environment.
I sure wish these conveniences had been around years ago, however, when I really needed them.
Back in the early 1970s, when health-insurance companies usually paid 100 percent of medical bills, I developed the habit of rushing to the doctor’s office whenever I had even a minor ache or pain.
Looking back now, I realize I probably overdid it. I mean, I once saw the doctor because I had a painful hangnail. Another time, and I’m totally serious here, I rushed to the doctor’s because I had weird blue spots on my hand and thought I might have a problem with my circulation. It turned out to be ink from a permanent marker. It’s a wonder my insurance company didn’t dump me.
Still, I wasn’t half as bad as this woman, Charlotte, a former co-worker of mine. She used to schedule a battery of medical tests for herself every year during her vacation, just so she could spend the week in the hospital. I once asked her why on earth she’d want to waste all of her vacation time in the hospital.
“Because I can relax in bed all week, watch TV and have three meals personally delivered to my room, all free of charge!” she said. “How can you beat that?”
Considering one of her tests was a G.I. series that included a barium enema, I wasn’t the least bit tempted to try her free-vacation idea.
Back in those days, not only did most insurance companies pay 100 percent for treatments and tests, there also was no limit to the length of time you could spend in the hospital. If you gave birth to a baby and wanted to stay there until he was old enough to walk, you could. If you preferred to have an outpatient test done as an inpatient, you could do that also.
As a result of my monthly visits to various doctors, I amassed quite a collection of medications for just about every body part or ailment. I had pills for headaches, cramps, toothaches, heartburn, hives, constipation, diarrhea, 17 assorted rashes, and lumbago. Most of the time, I’d fill the prescriptions and then shove them into the cupboard “just in case” I needed them.
Which was why one night as I was digging through the top shelf of a kitchen cupboard I rarely used, searching for a set of glasses I’d kept up there since my wedding, I discovered what looked like a small pharmacy tucked away in the corner. There were dozens of prescription bottles up there, most of them still full and all of them long expired.
My first instinct was to flush them down the toilet. But then the thought of their toxins entering the ground through my leach field out back and turning earthworms into mutant junkies that robins would eat and then become so drugged, they would fly head first into trees and buildings, made me veto that idea. I also knew that tossing pills into the trash wasn’t a good option either. So I called the local pharmacy and asked the pharmacist what I should do with about 5,000 assorted really ancient pills. He told me to bring them in and he’d properly dispose of them for me.
I opened every prescription bottle, which took most of the night and half
of my fingernails because I had to wrestle with all of the childproof caps, and
emptied the pills into a gallon-sized plastic bag. I nearly filled it to the
top. 
Photo courtesy of Cottonbro Studio
The next afternoon, I grabbed the bag and headed toward the pharmacy. That’s when it suddenly dawned on me that if, for any reason, the police had to stop me and they discovered a big bag of pills of every color of the rainbow sitting next to me on the front seat, I’d probably end up spending the rest of my life sharing a prison cell with some axe-murderer named “Amazonia.”
“Why didn’t I keep the pills in their prescription bottles?” I muttered, thinking back to every episode of the TV show “Cops” I’d seen where the driver they’d pulled over had protested, “I’m not a drug dealer! Honest, officer, I don’t know WHERE that half-pound sack of pills in the glove compartment came from!” as they slapped the handcuffs on him and charged him with illegal possession and intent to distribute.
My knuckles were white on the steering wheel as I drove down the highway at the exact posted speed-limit. The entire time, my mind was reeling. Were my tires bald? Was my muffler hanging off? Was my neighbor’s cat clinging to the front grille? I didn’t want to draw any attention whatsoever to my car. The fact that the pharmacy was located right next door to the local police station didn’t help ease my tension.
By the time I pulled into the parking lot at the pharmacy, my upper lip was glistening with nervous perspiration.
The pharmacist’s eyes widened when I handed the bag of pills to him. “Wow! That’s quite a collection you have there,” he said. “It kind of looks like a bag of trick-or-treat candy!”
All the more reason why I was relieved to be rid of it.
Flash forward to this century. Insurance companies now are so strict, not only are they very selective about what they will or will not cover, procedures like gallbladder surgery, which used to require at least a week’s stay in the hospital, now are done during the patient’s lunch hour…and then the patient heads right back to work.
As a result of the insurance companies cutting way back on their benefits, I have learned to bite the bullet and not rush to the doctor’s office every time I sneeze or have a gas pain. And I can’t even remember the last time I needed a prescription, so my closet no longer is cluttered with bottles of unused pills. So I guess there's at least one plus side to the changes.
Still, I can’t help but wonder where poor Charlotte is spending her vacations nowadays.
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Sally Breslin is an award-winning syndicated humor columnist who has written regularly for newspapers and magazines all of her adult life. She is the author of several novels in a variety of genres, from humor and romance to science-fiction. Contact her at: sillysally@att.net.
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