So my pharmacist kinda hates me.
I really don’t know what I did, what with my exceptionally sparkling personality and rapier wit but I just can’t seem to get the woman to like me. Which is unfortunate since I have fifty-gajillion prescriptions to pick up each week.
But because I have an issue with people not liking me for no reason whatsoever, it actually bothers me. Let’s rehash, for those of you just tuning in.
Back story: my daughter had just been born with a previously undiagnosed neural tube defect called an encephalocele, which mean that part of her brain hanging out of her head. There were three weeks in between the diagnosis and the neurosurgery that would fix this. Those three weeks were hell. I was on some anti-anxiety medication for the first and only time in my life (I’m not actually very anxious). This was me trying to call in a refill.
Me (voice shaking): “Hi, uh, this is Becky Sherrick Harks, and I need a refill on my Ativan. Er, the genetic stuff. Whatever it’s called.”
Her: “You can’t have it.”
Me: (bursts into tears) “I need it.”
Her: “Your insurance won’t authorize it.”
Me (crying): “What?”
Her: “It’s the way the doctor wrote the prescription. You can’t have it.”
Me (misunderstanding and crying): “I can pay out of pocket. Whatever I need to do. I can’t do this.”
Her: “No. See your doctor wrote the prescription to say “three times a day.” And at that rate, you can’t have a refill until Wednesday. Three days from now. (satisfied) You. Can’t. Have. It.”
Her (smugly): “See? You can’t have it.”
Me (openly weeping): “I really need it.”
Her: “Call your doctor then.”
Now, the first time I wrote about this, I think I called it “The Reason Women Drive Their Babies Off Bridges,” because there was a saga with my asshole OB, too. The whole situation was a mess. I was deeply in the throes of PPD and could have used an advocate. The pharmacist was doing her job, I get it (my dad is a pharmacist, too), but being a huge bitch wasn’t part of it.
I’ll never forgive that coldness.
The next time I dealt with it was a couple of months later, when I started to get chronic daily, soul-sucking migraines. It’s a long sorted story, but essentially, I started off taking Vicodin and tapering up my Topamax dosage until I didn’t need the Vicodin any longer, because, well, of course. But for awhile, I had to take Vicodin every day to function. I don’t anymore. Thank Baby Jesus.
Me: “Last name is Harks.”
(um, was I going to be all, “since you glared at me and clearly disapprove, I’m just going to go ahead and say, “fuck it,” and go away?” I think not)
She finally hands me the Vicodin and Topamax prescriptions while giving me the hairy eyeball. I stare back, meeting her glare, pay and leave.
Rinse, repeat, ad motherfucking NAUSEUM.
It got to the point where The Daver wouldn’t pick up any prescription that involved narcotics because he got tired of her glaring at him.
I’ve never been happier to not need narcotics before.
(oh, and right before my surgery – thanks to my neck and shoulder issues that required some pain pills the month before – she convinced my surgeon that I was a drug seeker, so he told me to take Tylenol. Yeah. Thanks. Bitch. Because really, that’s not your fucking business.)
Over the weekend, The Daver coughed so hard that he dislocated his shoulder. While I found this to be a little hilarious because I’m the person who broke a door carrying a Diet Coke, I also found this worrisome. He’d been coughing for a couple weeks and clearly this was a problem.
At midnight, after he started wheezing and having a hard time breathing, he went to Urgent Care. Bronchitis. Got steroids, antibiotics and a breathing treatment.
Sadly, The Daver hasn’t gotten better, so off he trundled to the doctor yesterday, who gave him another course of antibiotics and more steroids. I was underwhelmed because Daver on steroids = HULK SMASH DAVER. But whatever.
Us, picking up his prescriptions:
Him: “I have two prescriptions for Harks.”
Her: “I canceled them. They were duplicates.”
Her: “Yeah, they were exactly the same as the last thing you got.”
Him: “No, they weren’t. They’re from a DIFFERENT doctor on a DIFFERENT date.”
Her: “I canceled them.”
Him: “I need those prescriptions.”
Her (smugly): “Well, I called your doctor and he agreed to cancel them. They were duplicates*.”
(sidebar, that’s what she did when my surgeon called in some pain pills for me. She called him and had him cancel them because I already had pain pills for my shoulders, rather than hold the prescription for me to be filled at a later date.)
Him: “But…um…huh? I needed those prescriptions.”
Her (smugly): “Well, you can’t have them. Call your doctor if you have any problems.”
*that’s a lie.
Of course, I called the doctor and got the prescriptions reinstated at another pharmacy because, obviously, but holy ballsack.
I get that she wants to be all assertive and make sure that The System isn’t being abused, but I don’t think that The Daver’s about to sell his antibiotics on the black market. I mean, I guess he could be running an undercover-drug ring, but I somehow doubt it. He lacks the Drug Dealer Gene.
There’s always hope for Amelia, though. Hopefully, Playmobil makes a Drug Dealer Advent Calendar next year for her.