Elizabeth is not a total heretic; just hear me out.

I don’t like taking antibiotics, and as a general rule I try to avoid them. They are over-prescribed, and frankly I don’t care for the inevitable yeast infection afterwards. Nevertheless, everyone has her breaking point and I’d reached mine. Cursed with a cough for nearly a month, night after night after night of coughing my fool head off until 3am, the sensation of not being able to breathe, unable to speak a complete sentence without barking like a seal, I was desperate for relief. Bring on the drugs. After returning from the pharmacy, I eagerly swallowed magic pill number one of ten. Curiosity then got the better of me and I made the mistake of reading the five-page warning label. This is some serious shit. Got bronchitis, or pneumonia? You’re covered. Trouble down below: kidney, prostate, or urinary tract infection? This’ll clear you right up. Happen to get exposed to a little anthrax? No problem. Wander into an area with, oh, THE PLAGUE??? This is the wonder drug for you. Holy moly, WTF did I just take?!? And then I read on. The possible side effects were nothing short of terrifying. Apparently my tendons could basically explode. I’m to call the doc right away if I “hear or feel a pop in a tendon area.” Call me suggestible, but my neck hurt just from reading that and I swear I heard popping… I could also end up with intestine infection, peripheral neuropathy, serious heart rhythm changes, joint problems, blood sugar issues, and/or liver toxicity. Pill number two was significantly harder to swallow.

Lying in bed last night, doing my best not to blow completely out of proportion the slight aches and pains I was convinced I was feeling, I remembered my first son’s introduction to antibiotics. It started with God. Fischer was three and attending the local Methodist preschool. Evidently the teachers were doing a fabulous job impressing upon him that God is inside all of us. It was hunting season, and his Dad is a hunter. Not the sporting trophy kind, but the feed your family kind. The usuals were there: good friend Richard, and my brother-in-law John. All the men were outside by the giant oak tree methodically gutting the first deer of the season. Fischer was a curious kid and not at all deterred by blood and guts. He observed the process attentively. I was inside cooking. Suddenly the door burst open and Fischer ran in with this exclamation, “Mama, Mama, I saw God!!!!!!!” Alrighty then, he had my attention. However, he paused, and with great disappointment, his next words were, “But Jesus didn’t fly out.” And, silence. I was more than a little perplexed, but quickly put two and two together. I proceeded to explain to him that God doesn’t literally live inside of us, or the deer for that matter. He’s a damn smart kid, but the gist of this metaphor was particularly hard for him to wrap his three-year-old head around. Literal to the core, you didn’t get away with telling this boy it was 4:30 when it was only 4:29. He once asked me what kind of car my friend drove. Unwilling to launch into an explanation of what an SUV was I simply told him she drove a truck. He stepped outside to confirm this information and immediately corrected me, “Mama, that’s not a truck. That’s a Jeep.” I resisted the temptation to inform him that actually it was a Land Rover, but he was right. It most certainly was not a truck. So if the Methodists had him convinced God lives inside of us, I definitely had my work cut out for me.

Shortly after Jesus didn’t fly out of the deer Fischer got sick, probably an ear infection, and he needed antibiotics. True to his inquisitive nature he asked what the medicine did. His Dad and I explained that it went in his body and killed all the bad germs. He took that in, did a quick mental calculation, and froze. Fear swept over his innocent face and he asked, “What about God and Jesus?” This poor child was terrified that the antibiotics were not only going to kill off the germs, but obliterate God and Jesus in the process. Oh you Methodists and your good intentions, look what a mess you made.

He’s a teenager now and while still as literal as ever, he is able to grasp the occasional metaphor and run with it. An acolyte in the Episcopal Church, I assume he accepts that those drugs twelve years ago didn’t annihilate the Holy Trinity. Yet here I am still coughing and potentially losing my mind, on day three of the evil pills, and quite honestly if he was right, so be it. God and Jesus be damned. Give me relief!