When Alex was about 10 months old, I realized that I was suffering from Postpartum Depression and was promptly seen by my doctor and treated with some excellent mood enhancers (sadly not MDMA).
Every now and again, even knowing better like I do, I’ll get this bright idea that I need to go off of them for some reason so I do. The results are always predictably bad, save for when I was badgered into going off them at 8 weeks pregnant with Amelia. Then, for a good 20 odd weeks, I did remarkably well all things considering.
But, what goes up must come down and at 20 odd weeks pregnant, I realized that I Was Not Handling Life Well. Crying whenever a commercial came onto the television–even aquadoodles! which may be annoying but certainly not sob-worthy–wasn’t my standard MO and I made the executive decision to resume taking my Vitamin W.
So, one weekend while shopping at the hallowed halls of the beginning and end of my current social life (read: Target), I had The Daver pop over to the pharmacy to request the refill on my Vitamin W while I peed or something equally pregnant-like. No sooner had he walked away (as I walked up behind them), but I hear my name booming over the loudspeaker to “return to the pharmacy.”
Since I was already there, I popped my head up and addressed the no-nonsense looking pharmacist who appeared to be glaring at me.
“Hey, I’m Rebecca Harks, what’s up?” I started in.
“Didn’t you go OFF this medication?” She accused me, her voice dripping with…anger? Could that REALLY be anger? “Because it says in the system that you stopped taking it.”
I was momentarily shocked as this woman had immediately put me on the defense, not a common reaction I have to people talking to me. (IT IS NOT A COMMON REACTION, INTERNET!) (see, that’s a JOKE. Because I was being defensive about being defensive. God, I crack myself up. I should be a comedian.)
“Well,” I sort of sputtered, taken completely aback and somehow now on the verge of tears. “I did. But I need to go back onto it now.” I wondered why my fucking pharmacist was making me justify something that she personally had no reason to do so. She, as I knew, couldn’t write me a prescription, so what does it matter WHY I take ANYTHING?
Answer: it doesn’t.
“Well,” she angrily spat at me, “you ONLY have a script for 10 more pills. THEN you’ll need to call your DOCTOR.”
The tears were welling up as she accused me again and my throat became lumpy as I tried to swallow.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll call them on Monday. But in the meantime, I want my 10 pills.”
Internet, hand to heart here, the woman then rolled her eyes at me. No, really, she did. Daver even saw it, so you know I’m not being hysterical here.
While I’m aware that being on an anti-depressant while obviously pregnant isn’t perhaps the best thing on the planet, trust me, I struggled with being on it for that reason, it’s not the end of the world. My own mother was on Lithium while she was pregnant with moi and look at how well *I* turned out!
Okay, bad example.
I guess what I’m saying is this: if you have to be on something to help you make it through your life, that’s something that’s between you and your doctor, and God not you and the Target pharmacist. I wasn’t asking for Viagra, I wasn’t asking for meth, I just wanted my fucking anti-depressant. More than anything, I wanted NOT TO NEED IT.
But if I do need it, I’d prefer it without the side of Judgmental Bitch.
It should have come as no surprise to me that last week, when I called in a refill for my Ativan (with one clearly left according to the jaunty label) I attempted to do so through the computerized system. Immediately as I hung up, the phone rang. Guess who?
The natty haired Target pharmacist!
Immediately she launches into, “Did your doctor change your dosage?”
“Erm, no,” I sputtered, upset to begin with.
“Well, I can’t give you this. You can’t have it for another 2 weeks.” She stated flatly, but with an accusing tone to her voice. I must add that the first and only time I’ve needed this medication was after Amelia came home with a cyst on her fucking skull. And even then, I was so upset that I had Daver call my doctor and request this FOR me.
“Can I pay full price?” I asked, thinking it was an insurance thing. Money was not an object here. Sanity was.
“NO. You can’t have this for 2 more weeks.” There was no budging her. And now, of course, I’m in tears. While everything set me off into a crying jag last week, this was especially brutal.
She finally agreed to call my doctor to request a dosage change for me once I started hiccuping hysterically into the phone as I explained the situation with Amelia to her.
And while I don’t fault her for doing her job–shit, my dad is a pharmacist, I respect that stuff–it’s become clear that she has a bias against psychiatric medication. That’s what makes me so sad.
If she couldn’t practice empathy, at least she could have been less I’m all gonna judge you for needing medication YOU WEAK, SPINELESS BITCH, YOU.
Perhaps I should act REALLY crazy and go and take a poo on her car or something.
So tell me, wise Internets, has someone done something similar to you? Accused you in their voice and actions something that you didn’t deserve to be accused of?