Now who needs the anti-depressant?

This won't be a news flash to anyone who knows the situation, but I am not going to win Daughter of the Year (or wife or employee or friend, but those are separate columns). And I also have to acknowledge that Big Pharma does have something going for it.

About three days before a business trip, I was scrambling to make sure my mom had all her meds and that I had placed them all in the proper containers so her caretakers could dole them out at the appropriate time. Three needed to be refilled, so I called them in and went to pick them up.

The pharmacist, who is sometimes my BFF and sometimes the Spawn of Satan, apparently had chosen Personality No. 2 and would not, not, not refill the Lexapro, an anti-depressant, because it was too early. But, I said, I'll be out of town. Way too early, she said.

So I was two for three. If Manny were that good, we wouldn't have had that cliffhanger vis a vis winning the division. But in the world of elder care, two for three isn't quite good enough. She had enough for five days, and I would be away only for seven.

So I went off and came back. And then I did the bad thing.

I forgot.

I forgot that the one script that remained unfilled was the anti-depressant, and I didn't remember until the first Sunday I spent with her. We could have made a movie called "The Devil Wears Depends" that day.

I quickly had the script refilled and re-started her on it. This Sunday, she is like a different person. She is smiling and laughing, and a moment ago as I was standing near her, she reached out to pat my hand.

She should have slapped my wrist.

Because 88 is no time to lose a day to depression.