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# Ides
- URL: https://dianaludwick.com/ides/
- Published: 2026-03-15T18:17:52.000Z
- Updated: 2026-10-24T20:10:45.000Z
- Description: “Ides,” a dark humor accounting of my run-in with a Dr.-prescribed low dose sleeping medicine on the most dangerous day of the year. Written March 15, poem 074 in a series of 365 poems written by Diana Ludwick in 2026. Photo: "Poppin' Pills, OK M&Ms," Photo by Diana Ludwick (c) 2026.
- Author: Diana Ludwick
- Tags: 2026 Poetry Challenge, Dry Humor, Humor, Long form musings, Poems, Aging, Being Old, Church, Community, Cultural norms, Family, Ides of March, March, Mother-Daughter dynamics, relationships, Side-effects, Sleeping Medicine, Stranger, Sunday, Surviving, Women, #Migrated-1792872215677, #wp, #wp-post, #Import 2026-10-24 20:03

On Saturday night my father had joked:  
“You know, tomorrow is the fifteenth.  
Beware the curse — *the Ides of March!*  
The dinner party, which had featured  
a circle of family and loved ones, had  
all laughed, groaned, rolled their eyes.  
  
I woke up today, Sunday the fifteenth,  
at seven thirty-two a.m.  
Quite late for me, an elderly millennial.  
The second my feet hit wood floor  
a raging headache tore through my skull.  
  
"Uh oh," I uttered, at which I realized,  
*Oh no.* I think. *Even talking hurts.* 
*What’s going on with me? What's off?*  
I then recall, that I’d tried my first  
doctor-prescribed sleep aid   
before tucking in last night—*ughh*.  
  
She’d told me   
at the appointment  
she'd prescribe me  
a beginner's dose.  
  
"You know, sixty percent   
of my patients love this!  
And about forty percent—  
well, it’s not for them."   
  
"Try it on a weekend night,   
and if you like it, great!   
And if you don’t?   
Eh. Throw it out."  
  
With her kind voice   
and casual shrugs,   
she'd made it   
sound so simple.  
  
And now,   
I suspect I know   
which group I belong to:   
the Mortal Forty.  
  
I manage to pull myself down  
the stairs, one thump at a time  
I blearily punch buttons   
on the coffee machine  
'til a cup of brew streams out.  
  
I sloppily ready our kid for church.  
I drive with ginger touch to my mom’s.  
I wait for her to emerge from the door.  
I shut my eyes, seeking slight comfort.  
  
Then I beg my kid   
to text Grandma,  
and she does:   
“Like can you drive?   
Mommy’s sorta tired.”  
  
I heave myself   
out of the door,   
go to passenger seat,   
gently tuck myself in.  
I’m feeling worse than ever,   
not sure that I'll make it;   
I guess I might not.  
  
She arrives,   
takes my keys and seat.  
She drives us all   
to Congregation for services.  
  
When we park,   
instead of the church lot,  
she drives us deep into   
a chichi neighborhood.  
  
She instructs:  
“Di, you’re staying here,   
you can't come in.   
Get some rest.”  
  
And this sounds   
great,  
a relief,   
really.  
  
But then we realize  
this isn't the type of 'hood  
to condone sleeping strangers  
loafing creepily, looking ill,  
in an unknown car.  
  
“You’re gonna have to hide,”  
Mom says helpfully.   
My teen grins: "How awkward!"  
"Ugh, *mrghhphle*" I reply.  
  
They take off for service;   
I strategize.  
I need to “hide," and soon.  
That means transporting  
myself into the relative   
privacy of the tinted glass rows.  
  
This means crawling  
into the back seat —   
or the far-back cargo hold.  
  
I weigh my options:   
Lie across three contoured seats,  
tall seat belt stalks digging into   
my tender ribs?   
  
Or lay flat on a rubber mat with  
edges that prohibit a full extension?  
I pick the mat in the way back,   
which I instantly regret.  
  
I did not fully calculate   
how cold it would be  
in the SUV trunk,   
which lacks floor insulation.  
  
But now   
I’m committed,   
so I stay,   
shivering.  
  
I hear froufrou ladies  
walk by on a morning circuit.   
  
I peek up.  
I can tell by their   
Lululemon jackets   
and leggings  
and fancy trainers  
that they would not hesitate  
to call the cops on me.  
  
I cower down.   
*Don't peer in!*  
  
“This is ridiculous,” I exclaim,  
prompting me to remember   
that mere talking hurts   
like knives penetrating cranium.  
  
I slip on my daughter’s   
neon pink hoodie,   
the overpriced one   
she'd begged for.  
  
I hide my eyes   
under my wrist.  
I try for long minutes  
without success  
to fall asleep; no luck.   
  
Too soon, they’re back.   
Mom drives me in silence  
back to my parent's house.  
"OK your turn, you ready?"  
She hands me the keys.  
I stare dejectedly. "Umm.."  
She sighs. "Okay, let's go."  
  
Next thing I know, our trio  
is back at my house   
miles away.  
  
And I'm getting into PJs  
I am lying down,  
my pale skin to pillow.  
  
I fade in and out from there  
never quite sleeping but   
also not lucid, ever.  
  
*What have I done, Di?!*   
I think. I add with conviction:  
*And this is why I've never* 
*and will never do drugs.*  
  
I manage to stay conscious   
until a mid-proper nine p.m.  
I hoist myself into bed:  
"By my own bootstraps!"   
I chuckle blandly to myself.  
I slip on my sleep mask.  
  
At length,   
I fall into a sleep  
pierced by  
strange dreams.  
  
"Beware the Ides of March."  
Clearly the warning applies  
to more than Julius Caesar.   
I won't laugh next year —   
March 15th, I've my eye on you!