I recently picked up my new inhaler from the pharmacy. Before the tech handed over the box with the inhaler inside, she shoved a clipboard and pen toward me. “Sign here, please,” she said.
“Why? Is this a controlled substance or something?”
“No, it's a waiver in case you throw out your back from lifting the box.”
The box containing my new inhaler was quite large. Inside, however, the actual medication took up perhaps 1/32 of the space. The rest was occupied by the written instructions, which unfolded large enough to contain a map of the universe, except with no color and tinier writing. I assumed this was due to the same words being given in 17 or so languages, and the English part would be a half page or so.
But no. The ENTIRE thing was in English.
The instructions outlined the use of the medication, various side effects and warnings, the chemical makeup of the drug, details of its clinical trials, the amount of donuts and cups of coffee consumed by scientists during these trials, the number of European vacations earned by company executives owing to anticipated sales of the drug, etc.
There was a final warning that “This instruction booklet does not constitute the entirety of known knowledge on this drug. Patients should speak with their health care provider or pharmacist for more details. Although really, why would you want to?”
I imagined a discussion with my health care provider wherein I inquired for more details on this medication. “I think the insert covers pretty much everything,” she would say, consulting her list of “further details.” “Oh, there is one more thing it didn't mention: ’You may die while taking this medication.’”
The instructions in the box were right. I don't want to know more. On the upside, I think I'm starting to get some stronger muscles from folding and unfolding them.
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