My 73-year-old father waited two hours for heart medication he’d taken for years. Then a pharmacist told us to come back tomorrow. As we headed for the exit, a nervous employee slipped me a receipt and whispered, “Please don’t leave yet.” What had she discovered?
“Dad, please sit down. You’re going to fall.”
My father tightened his grip on his cane and shook his head.
“I’m fine, Helen.”
He wasn’t fine. His legs were trembling, his shoulders had begun to slump, and we’d been waiting at the pharmacy for nearly two hours.
All he needed was the heart medication he’d taken for six years.
Normally, picking it up took ten minutes.
That afternoon, nobody would tell us why it was taking so long.
Every time Dad approached the counter, the pharmacist glanced at his computer and asked him to wait a little longer.
“Dad, let’s go somewhere else,” I whispered.
“Just five more minutes, sweetheart.”
He’d been saying that for the past hour.
I watched him lower himself into a chair, carefully positioning his cane beside his knee.
At 73, my father, Arthur, was still stubbornly independent.
He lived alone, cooked his own meals, and insisted on driving himself to the grocery store.
But since Mom died three years earlier, I’d noticed him slowing down.
He tired more easily. He sometimes forgot where he’d put things. And lately, he seemed to need my help more often.
At least, that was how I saw it.
I started accompanying him to appointments and handling phone calls whenever something became complicated.
He rarely complained.
I took his silence as gratitude.
“Maybe they lost the prescription,” I said.
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