I can remember Christmas Eve when I was a kid. It would be late, and I would be waiting for the sounds of hooves on the roof or the cookies' mysterious disappearance from my grandmother's parlor. It would be dark, but lights from the tree or little singing dolls or the Christmas lights strung around the bushes outside would give the place a glow, like everything had its own bit of light coming from deep within itself. My grandmother would be up later than anyone else, and after we finished an all night, marathon card game, she would disappear into the kitchen. A second later, not wanting to be left alone, I would follow her and get a glass of juice. I would sit at the kitchen table, and my grandmother would start into an old ritual she had been practicing, I'm sure, for years before I was born. She would get out her pestle and begin grinding pills. She ground them slowly, and gently tapped the powder into spoons filled with yogurt. She would have six or eight spoons lined up, and then take each one with a sip of juice. She was closer to her sell by date than the rest of the family so I would assume it was just a part of being old. She was my grandmother, and taking a myriad of pills is just what grandmothers did.

But then, one day at home, a container with 7 compartments appeared on my kitchen table. This wasn't my grandmother's house and it was out of place. Not only did it appear, but it had all sorts of colored pills stuffed into every compartment. Now somehow my grandmother's mystical, late night ritual had seeped into my house. The kitchen wasn't calmly glowing from outdoor Christmas lights. These pills were no longer in the safe zone. My grandmother took pills; in my head not for any diseases or problems, but simply because that was what grandmothers did. Now I was presented with sickness. These pills weren't taken without reason (not that my grandmothers were). They were taken to prevent death.

I remember going to my room, and trying to watch a favorite television show of mine. But my mind was stuck. This wasn't something my mom just recovered from and then went on as usual. This would never fully go away, and even if the pills were the only physical remnant the cancer left behind, they were a daily reminder (initialed on every little plastic door) that danger was around the corner.

Today the pill regulator still sits on the table, filling and emptying weekly. It has been joined by another at the other end; my fathers. And it is a simple part of everyday life, but that is not to say its welcome. Much like rush hour traffic isn't interesting or astounding, it's normal, and yet every time you run into it you resent it just as much as you did the last time. So no, I didn't get upset and throw the container against the wall, splattering the pills across the floor, but I did notice, and I'll never forget what they meant in that moment: This change was permanent.