128 Hours in the Life of a Pharmacist
There are certain walls that can only be breached in the hospital.
In the real world, we would never be this intimate with our eyes locked together, our gestures mirroring each other, and our hearts aligning.
Fighting a strange war, fighting an infirmity.
We have a common goal so we share a bit of intimacy and it floats in the air.
It clumps my blood sometimes, fills you with worry, fills me with dread but fills us with hope too.
Fills us with hope because when I tell you to use a drug for seven days, you mouth the words or nod repeatedly.
It can only be hope that validates the repetition.
Hope. A deep psychological desire of humans that has translated to what Blair Warren calls ‘a hidden addiction’.
It is this same sense of hope that makes you vulnerable to me.
It is why you are here, in the hospital.
Every day, I walk to the hospital with my chest full of impatience.
Shuffled words are the only words I know now.
Not too loud, not too coherent.
Just enough to pass as an acknowledgement of being present.
A few nods here and there to pass as greetings—perhaps a slight wave, a plastic smile, sometimes a practised one.
Nothing too serious.
I rummage through my black tote bag for the right denomination to give the rider, a slight tilt of my head to calculate my change, the swift gestures of calloused hands to exchange the money.
I walk towards the building, along the vehicle path instead of the pedestrian path because who cares?
Day in, day out and the sun becomes alien to me.
Whether it creeps in the morning in soft yellow rays or burns the side of my face in the afternoon with a harsh glow, I never acknowledge it.
It is no longer the same sun that gave me so much hope, I thought my heart would burst one day to empty its fragile content on the floor.
Now, I don’t care.
Sometimes, I care. I imagine the pain a patient is feeling.
I size them up, first to contemplate replacing a drug with a slightly expensive alternative.
I size them up again to ensure the replacement aligns with the economic pharmaceutical outcome.
I watch their confusion, their expectation to collect the drugs, the surprise filling their eyes at the price sometimes.
I avoid their eyes before I give them necessary instructions and sometimes, slightly raise my voice before counselling them.
I hide my sexy British accent. It won’t be necessary.
I struggle with speaking Yoruba watered with simple English instead.
I know that at least if I keep reiterating it, they will get it.
Day in, day out. The walls cave in and then widen again.
Is this what it means to be a health worker?
There is a roster. My bed misses me, I know.
My back aches slightly. Adulting symptoms?
I try for the umpteenth time to read the news but it drains me. What is happening today in the world?
Every day, I walk to the hospital with silence sitting next to me, almost at shoulder level.
Very immobile, like my heart. Still.
Waiting for the day to be over.
Wondering what dose of ivermectin is used to treat scabies in children again.
Wondering if the sun will ever matter to me.
Notifications no longer move me.
‘How are you?’, ‘When are you free?’
‘Please call me when you see this.’
A 3-minute voice note.
‘Labake’
‘Guy, see the price of this dress.’
Missed snap video. Missed WhatsApp video.
‘Check your snap’
‘Sorry is it two times a day you said?’ The woman in front of me says quietly, her breath nuzzling my neck and bringing me back to life.
‘12 hourly’, I say instead and let it sit in the air for a while before I continue.
‘12 hourly is two times daily’, I avoid her eyes.
I should have just said yes, I realise immediately, the silence suddenly annoying me.
‘Okay’, she says.
Okay, I repeat, but only to my hearing.
No locked eyes with the adults because this is not a Korean movie.
No locked eyes because this intimacy is circumstantial.
If it were a child, then I would lock eyes on purpose.
I want to remind them that they will feel better soon because of the transient hope that hides in the hospital walls but I stay silent hoping that the silence passes the message across, on my behalf.
I adjust the collar of my ward coat.
The office is hot but I have been instructed to stand on business.
Day in, day out.
Day in, again. Bloody day out.
The sky is suddenly wearing a grey colour.
It looks like it is going to rain.
Perhaps, a drizzle. I can’t wait.
Blackie🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂🫂
Nice piece, love it.