The Enalapril is still in the fridge. I saw it tonight when I put the vanilla back. (Four batches of chocolate chip and two of ginger chocolate — not a bad dough night.)

It’s been weeks since Sophie’s check up, at least a month since the cardiologist took her off the medication designed to keep her blood presure low. No one ever said it, but the reason’s obvious: It was meant to keep the pressure off her newly mended valve.

When he wrote the prescription, the cardiologist said they really didn’t know if this would help or not, but he figured it wouldn’t hurt, so why not? And so for months, twice a day (even on vacations — and required refrigerationa) we gave Sophie her medicine. Luckily she loved it, insisted on pushing the syringe herself.

It’s expensive stuff. The co-pay is $50 and the prescription had to be refilled at a specialty apothecary, about every month. It’ll be weird to go through medical receipts to add up that flex-ben money I’ve got to grab before year’s end. 

And now, poof, she doesn’t need it anymore. I guess. It’s not like it would be good, it’s probably expired already. But something won’t let me toss it.

Ray, either.

“Who’s going to be the one to throw the Enalapril out?” he asked a while ago.

I shrugged and changed the subject, thinking inside, “Not me.”

It probably wasn’t doing anything, but it was nice to have an effort to make. Without formal religion in the house, now it’s just a wishing game. I cuddle with Sophie and cup my hand over the big bump on her chest and feel her heart pounding, and wonder.