I’ve seen my
husband through a few surgeries over the past few years, the latest—last Wednesday—being the repair of an inguinal hernia. He’s suffering a slight
complication today, which required a new prescription for pain killers.
When I dropped off the script for Tylenol #3's at the pharmacy, I was told that under new regulations I would require two
pieces of photo ID in order to pick up the drugs, as they were deemed narcotics. Seems like a good policy; one that is simple enough to comply with, for
people who possess the required documents.
Today I used my
passport, but as for fulfilling the second obligation by producing a plastic card that reveals both my photo and my
current address, I came up short. It's not like I can show them one of my hard-cover books with the author's photo on the back (although I did try that at the border once).
My health card is
one of the early ones with no identifying photo—there’s that age thing again—so there is no picture of me (pink-haired, behatted or otherwise) to prove
my identity. Just the iconic, Canadian, red and white markings and a bunch of
numbers. It looks like I’ll have to get a driver’s license, if only for the
credentials.
I know. I can hear
you screaming, “You don’t have a license?” I do not. Any of you who have heard
my husband recount my driving exploits, know why I gave the practice up. I admit
to my shortcomings. I was a terrible, inattentive driver, continually thinking
of hats or dreaming up fictional plots in my head, while entire legions of
angels kept a lookout for my safety.
Once, in the 80’s,
I was involved…Strike that, I caused an accident that prompted me
to ask the constable, “How many cars did I hit?” She answered, “You only hit
one, Dear, but you struck it twice.”
Tomorrow I’ll bus
it to the Motor Vehicle Bureau, or whatever they call it, and tell them I want
to apply for a license to pick up narcotics. Do you suppose they’ll take my
picture and hand me a card?
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