My Husband Tried to Kill Me (not really)
Several years ago, my husband Bob tried to kill me. No, he didn’t employ a hired gun from the cast of the Sopranos. He secretly used a much more subtle, much less noticeable, and yes, much less incriminating method to help me meet my demise.
Step into the time machine with me and travel back to the year 2000. Bob and I needed a change of scenery, a change of pace, a break from our tedious routine. So, we arranged for the lucky grandparents to spend a week with their three year old granddaughter Melissa, and hopped a cross country flight to the place where Tony Bennett left his heart. Yes, The Golden Gate Bridge, Fishermen’s Wharf, old fashioned trolley cars, and the world’s most crooked street welcomed this east coast couple with open arms.
Bob and I immediately embraced San Francisco’s fine dining, beautiful scenery, fascinating history, quaint shopping galleries, and multi-cultural neighborhoods. However, on the second day of our vacation, I started to feel a bit tired. A slow growing, throbbing sensation gripped the back of my head until finally, on day three, the pain could no longer be ignored. Reluctantly, I asked Bob if he had any Tylenol.
Never one to disappoint, Bob pulled out a prescription bottle filled to the brim with pills of assorted shapes and sizes. A year earlier, he had been diagnosed with diabetes. Fortunately, Bob took his medication diligently, resulting in normal blood sugar levels with each three month doctor’s visit. Numerous drugs kept Bob healthy, and he carried them all in one prescription bottle, the contents of which now sat in his hand. He pulled out two Tylenol and gave them to me. I gulped then down, gave him a kiss of thanks, and we continued on our merry way.
The next morning dawned with my head still throbbing, so I requested more Tylenol from my husband, a pharmacy at the ready! This day’s journey began with a trip to the rental car agency where we procured a vehicle that would take us north into wine country, a picturesque area turned brown and arid as a result of an unusual California heat wave. As the temperature reached upwards of 104 degrees Fahrenheit, my head continued to throb. The wine tasting didn’t help matters. I looked at my husband and feebly asked for more Tylenol.
However, this time, he did not respond to my request, but looked away, afraid to meet my steady gaze.
“What’s wrong?” I inquired, getting slightly suspicious.
“Oh nothing, nothing really, it’s no big deal,” he said.
“What, just tell me,” I requested.
“Remember, this really isn’t that big a deal,” he insisted.
“Ok, so just tell me!” I demanded.
“Well, you know how I’ve been giving you Tylenol and your headaches have not been getting better?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I replied, stating the obvious.
“Well, it’s because I’ve been giving you glucophage by mistake.”
Now, I should pause here in my little tale to explain that glucophage is a medication given to people with diabetes to help control the amount of sugar in their blood. If you read the fine print on the prescription bottle, it clearly warns:
"Do not use to get rid of your non-diabetic wife’s headaches."
So at this point, my rational, logical brain took over and I reacted very calmly. I immediately concluded that, thanks to ingesting glucaphage, my hours left on the planet were, indeed, numbered.
“YOU GAVE ME WHAT?” I shouted at my frightened husband, who stood quaking in his boots, terrified of my reaction. “HOW COULD YOU DO THAT? ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME!”
Needless to say, I lived to tell the tale. The incident did, however, put a minor kink in our well planned vacation. Seems Bob had filled his prescription bottle with just the right amount of pills to last during the week we would be away. Since I had now taken four pills intended for him, we rapidly concluded that he would not have enough to last until we got home. Forget about what would happen to me for taking diabetes medication I wasn’t supposed to take, we were now more concerned about what would happen to Bob for not taking diabetes medication he was supposed to take.
Fortunately for us, we owned a cat. No, the cat did not fly across the country to bring Bob his diabetes medication. But the cat did need to eat every day, and, thankfully, a gracious neighbor had agreed to make sure the feline didn’t starve. This meant that this same gracious neighbor had a key to our house, and could go in, find Bob’s diabetes medication, and fed ex the pills to our hotel in San Francisco, which she did!
In the end, our neighbor saved the day, and neither one of us met our maker during our trip to San Francisco. However, I did learn a valuable lesson. Tony Soprano’s got nothing on my Bob!
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