Poison Control
by Travis Flatt
“Should I throw up?”
I’ve poured my pills into piles on the carpet. I’m counting them. Four piles: red and white capsules; orange octagonal tablets; white oval tablets; white square tablets. I need to figure out if I took my nightly dose of medication twice. Checking the number of pills against bottle labels should answer this question. How many pills should I have, opposed to how many I actually have. I’m pretty sure that I swallowed my usual three thousand-ish milligrams of anticonvulsants with Sprite Zero and a granola bar earlier–I have a clear memory of that (also, the granola bar is now a wrapper), but between then (first dose) and now, I wandered the house on the phone with my brother, talking about an upcoming audition. On the phone–that’s when I may have absent-mindedly taken a repeat, second dose. Most weeks, I forget to put my pills in a pill tray. That would prevent this scenario. My wife, who is on a weekend trip with her mom, is driven crazy by my neglect of pill trays. I just forget them; I go weeks taking my meds straight from their bottles. For fear of seizures, I never miss my medication, and yet can’t remember pill trays. They’re a pain in the ass, always spilling everywhere.
Because I occasionally take extra pills at lunch to counterbalance the caffeine that I’m not supposed to drink but do anyway (my meds make me drowsy), I’m not sure that the piles and the pill bottles add up in a conclusive way. Too close to tell.
“Should I throw up?” It’s my dad I ask on the phone about vomiting. He’s a vet, and therefore gets all the family’s medical questions. I called him after counting the pill piles. It’s 10:15. Every night, dad drinks wine to help him sleep, a habit that concerns my brother and I because dad’s diabetic. “How long ago did you take the pills,” he says, meaning the first dosage, the granola bar dosage. I figure the granola-dose would have been an hour ago and the on-the-phone dose thirty minutes. He says that it’s probably too late: all those pills would have dissolved into my system by now, and not to worry about it. Vomiting won’t make any difference. I should drink some water, though. He doesn’t sound sure enough to convince me, and I get off the phone to call poison control.
Poison control answers immediately. I’m still sitting on the carpet in front of those piles of pills, and the technician or whatever, a lady with an Alabama drawl, asks the nature of my emergency? I explain that I think I’ve accidentally taken a second massive dosage of powerful pills.
“Your body builds up tolerance to any regular medications,” she says, but adds that I should call an ambulance if I feel chest pain. I sense this is a regular call for her and there’s a maternal note in her voice. On a personal call, she’d probably call me “honey” or “sugar.” She’s soothing. I wish this was a personal call.
“I’m on a very high dose of—” I list the medications, but she only repeats that I’ve built up a tolerance. I hear phones ringing in her background; she wants to end the call. I start to tell her what happened again, but she asks if I have any more questions and when I start to repeat my situation she just hangs up.
I lie on the floor and wait to die or enter a coma.
Recently, I published a string of poems. Some friends congratulated me via social media, though I assume most never bothered to read them. My dad congratulated me effusively. Work is going well, though it’s only part-time substitute teaching at the high school. I aspire to teach full-time, and I’m slowly making good with the administration. All things considered; this is the happiest I’ve been in years. It’s my second marriage. The first one ended badly, but it seems we’ve all moved past that now. My dad, I mean. He liked her. He took it hard.
I’ll admit that it’s tempting to write a maudlin Facebook post and tell off my friends because they never support my writing. Maybe the local directors who denied me roles I wanted, too. But I decide that if I’ve accidentally committed suicide, it’d be better not to burn bridges.
I want people to miss me. Everyone wonders how many people might attend their funeral. That would make a great App, one that could tally how many people would come to your funeral. I just need a catchy name.
Well, I might as well use this time in some constructive way. I’d been looking forward to a night alone. Normally, I’d read some recently published poems in the hot online journals for inspiration, though I usually only skim these as they tighten my chest with envy.
It’s been fifteen minutes, and my wife calls to say goodnight via FaceTime. I’m annoyed when she doesn’t say anything, only rambles, tipsy, makes silly faces. I don’t have time for this. I should be writing my magnum opus, my swan song. I lie and say I’m going to bed. Of course, I never mention poison control because I don’t want to start an actual conversation.
And I don’t want to worry her. I guess.
I drink a Coke and try to concentrate on reading a poem on a hipster website. It’s about ghosts. They’re all about ghosts. I hate it.
Thirty minutes later, I poop out a poem about ghosts, then send it off to several journals, including the Kenyon Review. Fingers crossed.
One hour, and I’m not dead, so, carpe diem. I’ll carpet bomb the journal-verse with my poem. What the hell: an actor, I’m immune to rejection. I’m on a race against the clock, anyway, what with these pills doing Christ knows what to my liver etc., and my brain slowly electrocuting itself.
I’ve poured my pills into piles on the carpet. I’m counting them. Four piles: red and white capsules; orange octagonal tablets; white oval tablets; white square tablets. I need to figure out if I took my nightly dose of medication twice. Checking the number of pills against bottle labels should answer this question. How many pills should I have, opposed to how many I actually have. I’m pretty sure that I swallowed my usual three thousand-ish milligrams of anticonvulsants with Sprite Zero and a granola bar earlier–I have a clear memory of that (also, the granola bar is now a wrapper), but between then (first dose) and now, I wandered the house on the phone with my brother, talking about an upcoming audition. On the phone–that’s when I may have absent-mindedly taken a repeat, second dose. Most weeks, I forget to put my pills in a pill tray. That would prevent this scenario. My wife, who is on a weekend trip with her mom, is driven crazy by my neglect of pill trays. I just forget them; I go weeks taking my meds straight from their bottles. For fear of seizures, I never miss my medication, and yet can’t remember pill trays. They’re a pain in the ass, always spilling everywhere.
Because I occasionally take extra pills at lunch to counterbalance the caffeine that I’m not supposed to drink but do anyway (my meds make me drowsy), I’m not sure that the piles and the pill bottles add up in a conclusive way. Too close to tell.
“Should I throw up?” It’s my dad I ask on the phone about vomiting. He’s a vet, and therefore gets all the family’s medical questions. I called him after counting the pill piles. It’s 10:15. Every night, dad drinks wine to help him sleep, a habit that concerns my brother and I because dad’s diabetic. “How long ago did you take the pills,” he says, meaning the first dosage, the granola bar dosage. I figure the granola-dose would have been an hour ago and the on-the-phone dose thirty minutes. He says that it’s probably too late: all those pills would have dissolved into my system by now, and not to worry about it. Vomiting won’t make any difference. I should drink some water, though. He doesn’t sound sure enough to convince me, and I get off the phone to call poison control.
Poison control answers immediately. I’m still sitting on the carpet in front of those piles of pills, and the technician or whatever, a lady with an Alabama drawl, asks the nature of my emergency? I explain that I think I’ve accidentally taken a second massive dosage of powerful pills.
“Your body builds up tolerance to any regular medications,” she says, but adds that I should call an ambulance if I feel chest pain. I sense this is a regular call for her and there’s a maternal note in her voice. On a personal call, she’d probably call me “honey” or “sugar.” She’s soothing. I wish this was a personal call.
“I’m on a very high dose of—” I list the medications, but she only repeats that I’ve built up a tolerance. I hear phones ringing in her background; she wants to end the call. I start to tell her what happened again, but she asks if I have any more questions and when I start to repeat my situation she just hangs up.
I lie on the floor and wait to die or enter a coma.
Recently, I published a string of poems. Some friends congratulated me via social media, though I assume most never bothered to read them. My dad congratulated me effusively. Work is going well, though it’s only part-time substitute teaching at the high school. I aspire to teach full-time, and I’m slowly making good with the administration. All things considered; this is the happiest I’ve been in years. It’s my second marriage. The first one ended badly, but it seems we’ve all moved past that now. My dad, I mean. He liked her. He took it hard.
I’ll admit that it’s tempting to write a maudlin Facebook post and tell off my friends because they never support my writing. Maybe the local directors who denied me roles I wanted, too. But I decide that if I’ve accidentally committed suicide, it’d be better not to burn bridges.
I want people to miss me. Everyone wonders how many people might attend their funeral. That would make a great App, one that could tally how many people would come to your funeral. I just need a catchy name.
Well, I might as well use this time in some constructive way. I’d been looking forward to a night alone. Normally, I’d read some recently published poems in the hot online journals for inspiration, though I usually only skim these as they tighten my chest with envy.
It’s been fifteen minutes, and my wife calls to say goodnight via FaceTime. I’m annoyed when she doesn’t say anything, only rambles, tipsy, makes silly faces. I don’t have time for this. I should be writing my magnum opus, my swan song. I lie and say I’m going to bed. Of course, I never mention poison control because I don’t want to start an actual conversation.
And I don’t want to worry her. I guess.
I drink a Coke and try to concentrate on reading a poem on a hipster website. It’s about ghosts. They’re all about ghosts. I hate it.
Thirty minutes later, I poop out a poem about ghosts, then send it off to several journals, including the Kenyon Review. Fingers crossed.
One hour, and I’m not dead, so, carpe diem. I’ll carpet bomb the journal-verse with my poem. What the hell: an actor, I’m immune to rejection. I’m on a race against the clock, anyway, what with these pills doing Christ knows what to my liver etc., and my brain slowly electrocuting itself.
Travis Flatt (he/him) is a teacher and actor living in Middle Tennessee. He is disabled. His work appears in Drunk Monkeys, Roi Faineant, Bridge Eight, and elsewhere. He enjoys dogs and petting dogs. Alas, he is allergic to cats.