Oranges

I don’t like the taste of oranges anymore.

Not since medication time at the nurses window.

With a starch, white hospital blanket pulled tight around me, I’d sit in my ochre colored scrubs across the small medical office. Too sick to stand. There, I’d wait for the faux orange flavored medication to fill the hollows of my mouth. As the nurse slammed down on the silent knight with a loud ker-chunk, I’d feel the vibration cut through my thin, goose-bumped skin, and rattle my aching bones as she crushed my pill. The smell of the sublingual treatment nauseated me. Quickly, she’d turn my wrist and double check my armband.

“Open wide, tongue up!”

I’d tilt my head back as far as I could while she poured the sandy, medicinal granulate into my mouth from a small Dixie cup. The chalky powder would stick to the wet of my mouth and begin to paste beneath my tongue.

For what felt like an eternity, I’d wait for it to fully dissolve and ease my withdrawals. I thought about how much I used to love oranges, willing myself to not get sick. Waking up to a cup of freshly squeezed juice with lots of pulp. Peeling and sharing a piece of a clementine with my grandmother. Now, the taste sends shivers down my spine. Somewhere along this titration journey, I associated orange in all facets with bone-aching illness.

At least I had sixteen years to enjoy them.

“Open!” The nurse inspects my mouth, instructing me to move my tongue in each direction to check for hidden medication in my cheek. “Go get a popsicle from the freezer.” She demanded, rolling her blue latex gloves down from the wrists.

I shuffled in my laceless shoes to the refrigerator.

There, only dozens of orange freeze pops remained. Left behind from other sick patients.

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