THAT ONCE-A-WEEK DAY.

Once a week, like most seniors, I sit down to the depressing chore of filling my Sunday-Saturday pill organizer. I do this always with the feeling that my physician, whom I admire, has overprescribed and I don't need half of them. Do I really have a thyroid problem? And, if I do, why such a low dose? I also don't know what half of them are for. I suspect the only one I really need is for acid reflux, a problem since I was a teen. But there is only one capsule I am truly suspicious of called Dutasteride. And the reason I don't trust it is this. If years went into research and development of this drug, then why couldn't these brilliant chemists keep it from sticking together. All the other pills tumble obediently out of their bottles, but this pill requires a vigorous shaking of the bottle before a clump of six of seven pills finally emerges, clinging together.  I am willing to overlook this because of the pills cheerful canary yellow color. Still...