Waiting for DHS to visit my center felt like preparing for a royal inspection—weeks of updates, double-checking crossbars on my T's and the dots on my I’s. The anticipation could drive anyone to the brink. You don’t make appointments. You don’t run errands. You most certainly don't risk skipping town or sleeping in and coming to work late for a half-day. No, no. When DHS comes knocking, you need to be at full attention—alert, prepared, and definitely not in pajama pants.
But on that day, my brain decided to pull a fast one. I forgot to take my nighttime meds—no biggie, I thought—I'll just take it now and shift tonight's dosage a little later. Logical, right? Wrong. Fast forward five minutes post-swallow, and it hit me like a plot twist in a bad rom-com —oh no, this medication makes me ridiculously sleepy.
I pulled up to work feeling like I’d done shots of Nyquil instead of morning coffee. That woozy, "I may as well be walking on clouds and rolling my eyes at gravity" kind of drunk. The second I entered the lobby, Kayla greeted me with, “DHS is here!”
“Wait, WHY didn’t anyone call me?!” I stammered, barely holding it together.
She smirked and said, “She just parked... right next to you.”
I spun around to see her unpacking her car that was right next to mine to come visit, and wondered how I missed her! Oh yeah.. I'm a zombie on Nyquil.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
Panic hit me like a load of falling bricks, and off to the kitchen I went. My plan? Emergency carbs. I demanded food like I was auditioning for Survivor. My cook handed me a veggie-loaded soft taco, which I inhaled while guzzling half a bottle of water. I wore some of the taco on my shirt... but I scrubbed it mostly off before I left the kitchen. Surely this would neutralize the sleepy potions, right? (—it didn’t).
By the time the DHS worker walked into my office, I was holding it together by a thread—and not even a good, sturdy thread. She looked at me, clearly concerned, and asked, “Are you feeling okay?”
And that’s when my brain, in all its Nyquil-drunk glory, decided my filter was optional. I blurted out, “I took my night time medicine this morning because I forgot to take it last night. I’m not drunk— I’m sleepy!”
Thankfully, she found my confession more hilarious than alarming. She laughed. I laughed. And somehow, despite my taco-covered shirt and incoherent ramblings, the visit went off without a hitch. No hiccups, no write-ups, and no permanent damage to my dignity. Just a hard-earned lesson I’ll never forget.
Night meds are called night meds for a reason.
