I was so sad. But this was a different sadness. This time, the blues manifested physically, because it actually hurt in 4 of my toes (3 on the right foot, 1 – the ring toe – on the left foot). And it hurt in my spleen.
I tried the usual home remedies: a Three Stooges marathon (it feels weird to be sad AND laughing); a Kurt Russell film (it feels weird to be sad AND nauseated); a few beers (it feels normal to be sad AND drunk). Nothing beat back the sadness.
Then I saw an advertisement for Cymbalta, an anti-depression medication.
This is totally true. The following is the verbatim text of the advertisement. Read it carefully, especially the disclaimers.
“Where does depression hurt? Everywhere. Who does depression hurt? Everyone. Depression is emotional. Sadness, loss of interest. And it’s physical, too. Aches, pains, fatigue. Cymbalta can help.
Cymbalta is a prescription medication that treats emotional and painful physical symptoms of depression.
Tell your doctor right away if your depression worsens, you have unusual changes in behavior or thoughts of suicide. Anti-depressants can increase these in children, teens or young adults. Cymbalta is not approved for children under 18. People taking thyrozidene or who have uncontrolled glaucoma should not take Cymbalta. Taking it with anside pain relievers, aspirin or blood thinners may increase bleeding risk. Severe liver problems, some fatal, were reported. Signs include abdominal pain and yellowing of the skin or eyes. Talk with your doctor about medications, including those for migraine, to avoid a possible life-threatening condition, about alcohol use, liver disease, or before you reduce or stop taking Cymbalta. Dizziness or fainting may occur upon standing. Side effects include nausea, dry mouth and constipation.
Ask your doctor about Cymbalta. Depression hurts. Cymbalta can help.”
Upon listening to that ad, I became even more depressed. I couldn’t imagine going on this medication. The fears of side effects alone would send me into a deep spiral of depression, like that time my prom date tossed her baby into the dumpster. But I digress…
So I went down to the black market drug area of East Austin, hoping to score some street Cymbalta.
I asked one hombre, “You got any Cymbalta?” He said, “Si, twenty – I get you simbata, taquerio simbata.” I gave him my $20 bill, and he came back with two breakfast tacos and a miga. What the hell?
I ate the food and felt momentarily better, but I knew this would only kill the sadness temporarily.
So I drove around some more, and finally was able to score some real Cymbalta.
I came home, sat down at my little dining table, and pondered what I was about to do. Looking at the four tablets in front of me, I wondered, “Was I really willing to take medication purchased on the streets? Without being under a doctor’s care and watch?”
I recalled the time I won $25 worth of estrogen therapy as a “lovely parting gift” on Wheel of Fortune (true). How after a few days, the medication made me lactate. But it gave me gloriously shiny fingernails.
What the hey. I downed two of the Cymbalta with some apple juice and waited for the hilarity to return to my life I should have eaten clown for breakfast. The Cymbalta didn’t do a thing.
After about half an hour, I started feeling a bit odd. Not funny – that would have solved my problem. Just odd.
My fingers were turning yellow. (I secretly cursed that I didn’t know about this phenomenon when I dressed as Homer Simpson for Halloween.) My cirrhosis of the liver started acting up.
Then my stomach started to hurt, badly. I stood up to go to the bathroom. I got dizzy and almost fainted. By now, the nausea was raging. I wanted to scream, but my mouth was too dry. I let out a raspy yelp, and was afraid my bowels were going to let loose, but they didn’t because, luckily, I was constipated.
Not wanting to let this escalate, I rushed to the hospital. I told the ER doctor what had happened, and showed him the two remaining Cymbalta.
He said, “Son, it’s fine. These aren’t Cymbalta. They’re Advil. You were ripped off.” Stupid drug lords! Selling me fake Cymbalta!
“Gee, thanks, doc. But what about these symptoms?”
“Have you eaten any black market tacos or migas?”
Stupid taqueiro lords…
(Editors Note: The above is almost entirely fabrication, except the verbatim script from the Cymbalta ad, the fact that I won $25 worth of estrogen therapy on Wheel of Fortune, and the fact that any Kurt Russell film would nauseate anyone.)
