A Taste of My Own Medicine (I)

  A Taste of My Own Medicine

Part I – Nymphomania

From what I can recall, it was about 3 o’clock in the afternoon and I was on my way home from work. The doctor says I have some kind of problem with my memory, so I don’t remember everything. I took my eyes off the road for a fraction of a second to check my phone and slammed into the car ahead of me. Things get fuzzy after that, and the next thing I remember, my doctor was dropping me off at my house, reminding me to take my medicine and to call him the next day. I don’t know which of the side effects I hate more; the impudence or the dysphoria. All I know is that I’d rather be forgetful than not be able to make love to my wife.

              “How was your day at work?” she asks me.

              “I don’t remember.” I said. “What’s for dinner?”

              “Chicken meatloaf” she said. “Have you been taking the medicine that doctor gave you?

              “Yes, of course.” I lied.

              I had told her very little about the doctor. All my wife knew was that I had been having memory problems and we had left it at that. As I sat down to eat, I began to question the sanity of my marriage and whether or not normal people actually ate chicken meatloaf (I found out later that they did not, and that my wife’s cooking was the least of my problems). I can’t help but feel like something about my life and my relationship with my wife was slightly insane, or at the very least askew and abnormal. It’s not like I was pacing the halls of a psyche ward spouting some nonsense about gas-powered dildos. Something just wasn’t right, and I couldn’t place it. Maybe she had been with another man.

              “How was your day?” I asked.

Later that night, we collapsed from exhaustion after making love. Lying next to her, I considered for a moment how much I loved my wife and how strained our relationship would be if I actually had been taking the medicine the doctor had given me.

              “The man who dropped you off…he said you made some pretty aggressive remarks to the guy you rear ended today.” She said, lighting a cigarette.

              A memory trickles back to me.

              “Yeah.” I said. “I told him to watch where he was going and to be more careful in the future…although I’m not sure that’s how I said it.”

              “But it was your fault. You’re the one who should be more careful.”

              Before I fell asleep, I thought about the fading consistency of our nightly love making. A few weeks ago we’d been having sex every single night. Two weeks ago, the whoopee parties dropped in frequency, and declined even more again last week. As our sex life started to deteriorate, so did my cognitive ability. Did my wife still love me?

The next day I went back to the doctor. He was a rugged old fellow, probably in his early sixties. I respected him. He was dignified, mature, and courteous. I liked him. The gradual decline of my short and long term memory had made it difficult to say, with any certainty, how long we had been working together. All I really remembered was that I needed to see him every day because of my condition.

“How are we feeling today, pal?” The doctor asked.

“About the same.”

“Do you remember what you had for lunch yesterday?” he asked.

“No.” I replied.

“Hmm.” He scratched his bearded chin and pondered for a moment. “Have you been taking your chronominaphine?”

“Yes, of course.” I lied.

“Well it doesn’t seem to be working. Do you at least remember our session yesterday?” he asked.

I thought hard, as if my life depended on it. Finally, I gave up and just told him the truth. “No, I don’t.”

“Well, if you start taking your medicine I guarantee we’ll have something to talk about, but I can’t help you if you don’t help yourself. Take your medicine and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I arrived at my home. It was lunch time on a weekday and no one even knew I wasn’t at work.

“Honey, I’m home early.”

“Are you alright?” she asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

“As far as my boss knows, I’m still there. Do you care about this shirt?” I said, gently stroking the collar of her blouse between my fingers.

“Not really” she said. It’s missing the last button. That’s why I have it tucked into my skirt.”

I proceeded to rip her shirt off and mount her on the kitchen table. I wish I could remember such a passionate moment, but that’s when my mind went blank again.

I considered the possibility that my condition was putting a strain on my marriage. Having first taken my full dose of medicine, I went home early from work to surprise my wife a few days later. My recent lapses in memory must be the cause of this rotten feeling, I thought. My mind was clear and I was ready to tell her that things would be different. I could only hope that my new found will power to take my medicine would make her love me again; that she would be alright with a less stimulating love life. She would know how hard I’m trying and that I only want to make her happy. This was my plan. I proceeded to speed the whole way home so I could explain just how different things would be.

I opened the door and heard moaning coming from the kitchen. I knew what I was about to find when I heard the noise. Some part of me had dreaded this confrontation. My wife was having an affair with someone. Of course she didn’t love me anymore. Why else would she be having sex with another man in my kitchen?

              As soon as I set foot in the kitchen everything became clear, including the last few sessions I’d had with my doctor.

“I cannot in good conscience let you continue indulging your nymphomania. We have a catch twenty-two on our hands. If you want your love life with your wife to continue, you’ll have to stop taking the medicine. But if you want to remember your day to day life without taking the medicine, you’ll have to stop interfering with your own timeline. You’ve proven to be incapable of making responsible decisions, so I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to refrain from using the machine until further notice.”

This was a request I had clearly ignored. I realized I didn’t actually know what day it was. Was it Tuesday? Wednesday? I had no idea where I had been or how long I had been there. All I knew was that I couldn’t avert my eyes from the horrible atrocity taking place in my kitchen. When the two noticed my presence and turned to face me, I couldn’t avert my eyes from myself. So there I was, watching my wife cheat on me…with me.