The Drug Maid

The pressures of work began to get to me about two months ago. I was losing sleep, I’d lost my appetite and even when I could eat I was scarcely able to keep anything down. Concerned, I went to the local physician to whom I was referred by a close colleague. The good doctor, after a thorough diagnosis, deduced that all my problems were stress related and suggested that I begin taking anti-depressants and quickly wrote me a prescription for Zoloft, the anti-depressant for champions.

As with any drug, I took more than the prescribed amount and suddenly my days were sunny and bright again, just like the commercials. After two or three days of wondering around a foreign country wired and wide-eyed I was able to see through the haze enough to figure out that maybe this wasn’t the brand of anti-depressant for me. The doctor had said that there were about 6 different anti-depressants on the market and that I could try each of them until I found one that fit my needs.

Confused and concerned about taking so many different types of anti-depressants I called my friend to get some advice. When I brought her up to date on my stress issues and my temporary fix the first thing she mentioned was the side effects of discontinuing usage of certain anti-depressants. The most serious of which was extreme suicidal tendencies.

Naturally I freaked.

I hadn’t noticed any urges to end my colorful life but nevertheless I decided to stay with the safe, non-suicidal drugs like pot. But here I was with all of this Zoloft. What was I to do with it?

Enter my friends' fifty-something year-old maid who comes to clean their apartment three times a week. My friend had gotten me in the habit of giving the maid our take-out leftovers which Edith, the maid, was always happy to receive. So much, that we’d started giving her clothes and such that we no longer wore which she would pass on to her grandchildren. So as not to waste the remaining doses of my Zoloft, I gave them to Edith, telling her, in my best broken English, that they were “mood enhancers”.

I could’ve sworn she understood me.

Over the next few days I went over my friends' house, and I noticed a change in her behavior. She began talking out loud to the appliances, cursing, then, caressing the television and one day even tying the mop strings to her feet and skating around the apartment, laughing and singing. This strange behavior culminated one day when I returned to their apartment at an odd time and found her sprawled out on the couch giggling uncontrollably with the unmistakable smell of shit looming around her. She’d become a quadrapalegic chuckle-box and I had the sinking feeling it was my fault. Rather, that of the prescription drugs I’d given her.

My friend soon arrived and we were able to get her on her feet and send her on her way. After which I received a vicious scolding for giving prescription drugs to the help. For the next few weeks whenever Edith came to clean and I was at their house, she gave me shifty looks from around doorways and behind furniture and all but leapt out of her skin whenever I called her name. She no longer trusted me or my broken English and I feared my relationship with her was damaged beyond repair.

To this day her knees shake when she walks and she bursts out in spontaneous laughter, particularly if I happen to mention the word “moist”.

Strange.

Sometimes you just have to take what you’re given and laugh about it later. No matter how uncomfortable it makes you or how much you happen to shit on yourself and others.