PHARMACY TELLTALES 101: 📖 CHAPTER THREE
By: MIYINGO Ivan, MPhil, B.Pharm, MPS
📖 CHAPTER THREE: THE THINGS THEY DO NOT WANT TO HEAR
There is a moment in every interaction that changes everything.
It is when the truth begins to form.
You can feel it before it is spoken.
Because not all truths are equal.
Some are easy.
These are acceptable truths.
Comforting. Contained. Temporary.
But then there are the other truths.
The ones that do not fit into instructions.
The ones that stretch beyond medicine into consequence.
These are not just statements.
They are disruptions.
The man standing in front of you does not hear your words immediately.
He hears what they imply.
And in that moment, something internal begins to resist.
It is subtle.
He nods.
He listens.
But his mind is already negotiating.
Denial does not announce itself.
It does not say, “I refuse the truth.”
It says:
“Let me adjust it.”
Behind the counter, you begin to recognize this pattern.
People rarely reject truth completely.
They reshape it into something they can live with.
A woman comes in, holding a prescription.
Not fresh.
Time has passed.
“How long ago were you given this?” you ask.
“A few days.”
Again—days.
But the prescription tells a different story.
The condition described does not match something recent.
It carries weight.
Duration.
“You were told to start this immediately,” you say.
She nods.
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you?”
A pause.
Then the answer comes—not directly, but carefully arranged.
“I wanted to see if it would improve.”
That sentence appears reasonable.
Measured.
Even responsible.
But beneath it is something deeper.
To begin treatment is to accept a reality.
To take certain medicines is to admit:
And for many people—
That is the hardest step.
Because once you accept something fully—
You lose the ability to pretend it is not there.
So they delay.
Not because they do not understand.
But because they understand just enough to be afraid.
Fear is rarely loud in a pharmacy.
It does not appear as panic or urgency.
It appears as hesitation.
As questions that circle instead of land.
These are not just medical questions.
They are emotional ones.
They are attempts to reduce the weight of what is being faced.
To shrink the problem into something manageable.
Something less permanent.
Behind the counter, you stand in a difficult position.
You are expected to be honest.
But honesty has consequences.
If you speak too directly—
You risk pushing the person away.
If you soften too much—
You risk allowing something serious to continue unchecked.
So you learn to balance.
To speak in layers.
To offer truth in a way that can be received, not just delivered.
But even then—
There are limits.
Because some truths cannot be softened.
A young man comes in late in the day.
He looks tired.
Not physically exhausted—but worn in a way that suggests something ongoing.
He describes his symptoms quickly.
Too quickly.
As if speed can reduce significance.
You listen.
You ask questions.
You begin to see the pattern forming.
This is not new.
This is not mild.
This is not something that will resolve on its own.
“You need further tests,” you say.
Silence.
Not resistance.
Not argument.
Just silence.
Because sometimes the truth does not create immediate denial.
It creates stillness.
A moment where the person is suspended between two realities:
The one they have been living in—
And the one they are being asked to accept.
“What if I just take something for now?” he asks.
That question is not about medicine.
It is about time.
But time, in these moments, is not neutral.
It moves.
It progresses.
It allows things to grow, to spread, to deepen.
And yet—
It is still chosen.
Because the alternative is immediate confrontation.
And confrontation requires a kind of courage that not everyone has, especially when they are alone.
Behind the counter, you begin to understand something unsettling:
People do not always want to be healed.
Not completely.
Not immediately.
They want relief.
They want reduction.
They want something that allows them to continue as they are—
Without fully facing what is happening.
Healing, in its truest form, demands interruption.
Change.
Acknowledgment.
And those things are not easy.
So instead, many choose a middle path.
Not ignoring the problem—
But not fully accepting it either.
Existing in between.
Taking enough action to feel responsible.
But not enough to truly resolve the issue.
This space—this in-between—is where many lives are lived.
Not just in illness.
But in everything.
Behind the counter, you see it clearly.
Because here, the consequences are physical.
Visible.
Measurable.
But the pattern itself—
It exists everywhere.
The things people do not want to hear are not always complicated.
They are often simple.
Direct.
Clear.
And that is exactly why they are difficult.
Because once something is clear—
It demands a response.
And not everyone is ready to respond.
So they adjust the truth.
Delay it.
Soften it.
Or walk away from it entirely.
And you are left standing there—
Holding a reality that may not be accepted.
This is the weight of knowledge in a place like this.
To see clearly—
But not always be able to make others see the same.
To understand what is happening—
But not control what happens next.
And to know that sometimes—
What is not heard matters more than what is said.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
TellTales from a freelance pharmacist and Atiah Miyingo's daddy documenting the unseen human condition through illness, survival, music, and truth.
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