Miracle Pills

Fifteen pills. One very hopeful patient.

For years I've been dealing with heartburn.

At first it was just heartburn. Then it became GERD. Then it became something that seemed determined to set fire to my entire digestive tract from one end to the other.

Eating made it worse.

This struck me as poor planning on the part of the digestive system.

Eventually, I did what sensible people do. I went to a specialist.

Specialists love tests. This is not a criticism. If I were a specialist, I would probably love tests too. The difference is that specialists get paid for it.

So there will be tests.

In the meantime, while waiting my turn in line for those tests, the doctor handed me a sample box.

"Try these," she said.

The box contained fifteen pills.

Just fifteen ordinary-looking pills.

Then she told me what they cost.

About four hundred dollars.

Not four hundred dollars a month.

Not four hundred dollars for a giant bottle.

Four hundred dollars for fifteen pills.

I did the math later. This was a mistake. The pills come out to roughly twenty-six dollars each.

Twenty-six dollars.

Per pill.

At that price, I feel a person should be allowed certain expectations.

I'm not asking for anything unreasonable. I don't expect them to cure every disease known to mankind. I don't expect them to reverse aging. I don't even expect them to clean the kitchen.

But if I swallow something worth twenty-six dollars, I would like some indication that I have consumed a premium product.

Perhaps a tiny fanfare.

Maybe a small voice saying, "Thank you for choosing the Platinum Digestive Experience."

At minimum, I feel there should be a noticeable sensation.

Not pain. Not discomfort. Just something. A little sparkle, perhaps. A warm glow. A certificate of authenticity. Something.

That evening I took my first miracle pill and paid close attention.

Very close attention.

If someone tells me a pill costs twenty-six dollars, I am going to monitor developments with the focus of a research scientist.

Five minutes later I checked.

Anything?

No.

Ten minutes.

Nothing.

Half an hour.

Still nothing.

I found myself conducting periodic internal inspections.

How's the mouth? How's the stomach? How's the general fire situation? Has anything improved? Has a choir of angels arrived? Has my digestive tract achieved inner peace?

Nothing obvious happened.

Which, admittedly, may be the point.

Maybe miracle pills are not supposed to perform like fireworks. Maybe they work quietly in the background while patients sit around waiting for dramatic special effects that never arrive.

I don't know yet.

The specialist seems optimistic. I remain hopeful.

And for the moment, I am the proud owner of fifteen sample pills worth roughly the same amount of money as a decent household appliance.

We'll see what happens.

Because if these little pills manage to tame what has increasingly felt like a medieval curse, I will happily sing their praises.

Although for twenty-six dollars each, I still think they could at least include the fanfare.