“What’s in that vial?” or The Unmarked Container Law

Earlier this week we received a dinner invitation from some friends who live just short of an hour north of here. It had been so long since we were out on a Saturday night, and longer since we’d seen them. It’s a bit challenging for me to travel even that short a distance sometimes, but worth it to get out to see friends for a night of fun.

We stayed later than I’d expected – after a leisurely (and very good) dinner we went back to our friends’ apartment for dessert (excellent rum cake) and to look at some photos of the property where they will be building their dream house – and Husband drove home, with me close to comatose in the passenger seat. One of the last things we joked about before we parted was that if we should get pulled over, we could set off a Breathalyzer from that cake. And if so, we should offer the nice officer a serving (from the section of the cake we were sent home with).

Anyhow, halfway through our trip, I needed to get out of the car and stretch my legs. That may sound odd, as I was nearly too exhausted to move, but it had been a long evening of not too much moving and a lot of sitting – in the car on the way up, in the restaurant, in the apartment - and now sitting again in the car, I was stiffening up again (The “usual” fibro care recommendation is to get up and move around every half hour or so).

We were driving through an area where most things were closed and it was very cold outside and I was thinking about what supermarkets might be on the way where I could walk inside. And as I was thinking about this, Husband said there was a cop behind us.

And then his lights started flashing.

Husband (good boy) pulled over immediately.

“I did take that last turn a little fast,” Husband said to me. “Damn, we’re going to get a ticket, I just know it.”

We waited.

Husband, most politely, greeted the officer (good boy), as the flashlight blared into our car.

After the usual questions about if we’d been drinking and where we’d come from (to determine if we were actually drunk, I imagine) he said, “I stopped you because you have no front license plate.” he said.

I said a few swear words to myself for my negligence. The car had been my mother’s. The car used to live in Florida. I’d changed the registration, the title, got an inspection, replaced the back license plate but (as Florida does not require a front license plate, and New York does) had not gotten around to having the other plate mounted on the front of the car. That plate was (and still is) bouncing around somewhere in the back of my car, because it kept falling off of the dashboard.

Husband explained the situation to him. But apparently this wasn’t enough. State Troopers are tougher than the local cops. He pointed the flashlight into the back.

“What’s in that drug vial back there?” he said.

“What drug vial?” I said, totally flummoxed.

Husband rummaged around on the floor behind me. “This one?” he said, and handed it to the officer.

The officer took it and held it up for my view. It was one of those plastic amber vials prescription drugs come in. Minus all the labeling. “What’s this?” he asked.

I squinted to see it better. “I think that’s my Skelaxin.” My stomach tightened. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember why that was on the floor of my car. I took Skelaxin a while back, and often if I were going out for an afternoon, I’d take whatever drugs I might need along in an empty drug vial (I routinely peel the labels off the vials and save them for this purpose, or just recycle them). But I don’t remember ever just leaving one in the car. Yes, I’d carry them in my purse, and maybe once a vial had fallen out. I am not the most diligent person about cleaning my car.

“What’s that?” the officer said.

“It’s a muscle relaxant,” I said, and Husband stepped in to explain that his wife had fibromyalgia.

The officer continued to examine it. “Is it a controlled substance?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. Thank God it didn’t contain two of my other drugs, which are controlled substances, which I take legally, of course.

He asked why the container had no labels. I explained about the vials, as I mentioned to you before. And that when I recycle them, I wouldn’t want anyone to get my personal information.

Then he asked Husband for his license and registration and disappeared with my Skelaxin.

Husband said a few swear words. “We’re going to get a ticket, I know it,” he said once more.

It was a long wait. We said little. The window was still open, the car was off, and we were getting cold.

After what seemed like forever, the officer came back.

He told us to get the license plate on. And he told us to keep our drugs in their original bottles. “If I wanted to, I could take you in on this,” he said, holding up the vial. “According to Public Health Law, you can’t carry prescription drugs in unlabelled containers.”

I apologized. I told him I had no idea. Which was the truth. Who knew this could land me in jail? Doesn’t everybody do it? It seemed ridiculous. To get thrown into the slammer for packin’ Skelaxin.

“Why don’t you carry the original container?” he asked.

I explained that it was too big. Which was true. Skelaxin is dispensed in big-ass bottles almost as tall as a drinking glass, and if I’m going out and think I might need a half a pill (which is about all I can tolerate of the stuff), I don’t want to load up my purse with the ginormous drug vial.

“Do you have a doctor’s prescription for this?”

“Yes,” I said.

And he let us go with a warning.

And we slowly drove away. And Husband reminded me at least three times before we got to Kingston not to take the pills out of the house in unmarked containers. OK. I get it.

I’m just glad my purse was in the trunk. Because if he’d searched that he’d find a unlabelled drug vial with half a Trileptal (one of the cocktail of drugs I take for the fibro), another with about half a dozen Tylenol, a baggie with about a dozen Motrin, a Lidoderm patch (gasp) outside of it’s prescription-labeled box (I mean, come one, the patches come in a box as big as a John Irving novel. I’m supposed to keep this in my purse?) and God knows what else.

And I’m going to clean out my car today. If I get around to it.

Anyway, let that be a lesson to you. Even if I think it’s a stupid law, it’s still the law. Though if I get caught with a Tylenol in a Ziploc, I hope some judge would have the good sense to send me home. But with our current luck, I’d get that guy from the Anna Nicole trial.