From the diary of Jennifer Saunders
It was dark by the time we passed the outskirts of the Greater Manchester area. Great fires burned in the distance and from this I gathered that Manchester must have been a target for one of the bombs. I had tried the radio again a short while ago but it was still broadcasting static. Driving was difficult as the road was now crowded with travelers, although it was not as congested as I had expected. The fugitives from the outskirts of the city and the surrounding countryside were scurrying away like rats and all sorts of cars, buses and other vehicles hurried along, their lights winking and twinkling.
Out of the corner of my eye I glanced at Tom. He was sitting quietly, gazing out of the window. The bright, orange flames reflected in his eyes as he watched vast expanses of suburbia burning. How is he going to adjust to being uprooted from his home and familiar surrounds? And what about his medications?
In addition to the microchip in his brain which helps controls his serotonin levels, Tom takes four pills in the morning and washes them down with a glass of clear fibregel to prevent constipation. The medicine comprises of two booster pills, which are supposed to help with OCD [they don’t seem to do a thing, in my opinion, but it is a truth that he has been on these medications for such a long time, I don’t know how he would be without them], a ditropan, which is a bladder cleanser, and an antihistamine. He checks his pills carefully every day before he will take them. If they look different in any way because they are a generic or a different brand of antihistamine, he will ask me what they are. Once I have answered, he will compose a question that only requires a yes or no answer to get his assurance that the unusual pill is what I have said it is. “Is this oval shaped pill an antihistamine?” is what he will ask. The answer must be “yes”. If I add extra information or explanations it nullifies my answer and he will ask again. The answer has to follow the accepted format. Frequently, the question is followed by a further question – “Do you promise?” Again, my answer must be limited to a yes or no or he will keep asking until I get it right. When he is particularly stressed, usually before tests, examinations or a holiday, he will ask the same questions over and over. OCD doesn’t make any sense. It has no logic. You cannot explain anything or negotiate with an OCD sufferer. He knows that his questions are ridiculous; that is not the point. The point is the overwhelming need for reassurance. If he doesn’t get this reassurance he can’t settle down and can’t sleep. The need is such a huge driving force that if I try to put my foot down [as advised by our medical experts, SIGH!], he will go into hysterics and hold the entire household hostage, effectively, by shouting and crying, until he gets the answers he needs. If he knew he had a microchip in his body to help control his anxiety as well as a microchip, like everyone else, for identification purposes, I think it might push him over the edge into madness.
Fortunately, I have a two month supply of his pills as I bought them a few days before this catastrophe and I always keep an extra month’s supply in case there is ever a shortage. I can’t think further than that at the moment. Not when everything is this precarious. He seems to be calm and collected so maybe he will surprise me and show great strength of character in the face of adversity.
This post was written for Sue Vincent’s weekly write photo challenge. You can join in here: https://scvincent.com/2019/05/09/thursday-photo-prompt-rooted-writephoto/