Yesterday, while cleaning our apartment, my wife came across a slip of paper which she handed to me the moment I walked through the door after work.
"Why didn't you ever fill this?" she asked, with no small amount of shock.
I looked down to see exactly what it was that she was talking about, and there in my hand lay a prescription from my neurologist -- for sixty Vicodin.
It had been issued to me right after I got out of the hospital.
In April of last year.
Which means that it's no longer valid.
It's times like this that make me appreciate the exquisite healing power of crying myself to sleep.
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