Oh to call in a prescription and have it rejected! As it was Sunday night there was nothing I could do but wait until Monday morning when I called again, sure it was a mistake.
Frank, my pharmacist (this is a small town, and we’re all on a first name basis) told me that the prescription had been cancelled but he knew me, and was sure that it was a mistake.
Now this is an anti-anxiety med I have been on forever. It has, for me, such horrible side affects as helping me be the friendly person I would have been if I weren’t so anxious; allowing me to focus on work, and school——when I was a grad student, and learn new skills; utilizing those skills; and many many more positive things.
I don’t have the incredible memory I once had. But compare my memory to many or most people’s memories who are my age, and see who remembers more. I’m a conceptual thinker who can give almost anybody a run for their money.
I could go on, but I think you get the point.
The med is a Schedule IV substance that is covered by any decent drug plan including Medicare’s formulary. Think about that. A medicine that is covered by Medicare——no problems in getting it filled or paid for–is, well, a product of big pharma.
But let me make a very revolutionary statement: sometimes some people need big pharma products. Sometimes they not only help us but let us live normal lives.
I had long standing plans to go to New York yesterday. Fortunately I cancelled the trip, on Sunday, as I had a lingering bronchial infection. (Not caused by this med but by pollen “irritants” that turned into asthma that turned into….)
Don’t cry for me as I have a few trips coming up.
Cry for me because yesterday morning was one of the worst mornings ever.
When I called the doctor’s office I found out that I couldn’t get the prescription filled until I came into the doctor’s office to be drug tested. Drug tested to see if I had too much of the drug in my system and was abusing it.
I don’t drive. Not understanding spatial relations is the numero uno part of my disability. It’s the part of my disability that has made me cry myself to sleep countless times. It’s the part of my disability that makes me feel less than. It’s the part of my disability that keeps me from inviting many people into my very lovely home out of fear I will be judged.
Hell, my father did forever. Though he apologized in a heart stopping wonderful talk. And once he found out that his friend, a graphic artist—-co-writer and producer of Beatlemania loved the apartment I lived in then, and couldn’t stop kvelling over it, because I had made a 450 foot studio into an imaginary five room colorful paradise, I could do no wrong. (For about five days, but that was my father….) Yes, today’s colors in 1980. HGTV has nothing on me.
No amount of therapy will ever be able to end my shame at not understanding spatial relations. I wasn’t brought up in an era when this was considered a disability. It was considered a character fault. Do you get it? Not being able to be incredibly neat was the worst thing possible. I could have failed every class, and gotten sympathy or empathy or help from my school.
Instead I was made fun of. Not by the students. By the faculty.
I tried my best to be invisible. I couldn’t be.
l learned to play off my looks and my personality. That took time.
Inside I was always the girl who couldn’t do anything right, yet on the outside I was one of the most popular girls in my college. I never understood that nor did I feel I deserved to be popular. Didn’t they see the ketchup stains on my collar. Oh right I neither ate ketchup nor wore shirts with collars. I wore vintage clothes. I managed to make myself look like a well–dressed girl, but really I wasn’t.
All this and every failure/success, and things in the middle, I have ever had was going through my head yesterday as I drove to the doctor’s office. I wasn’t going to ask a friend for a ride. Well, the cab company treats me as family. Good family, and I am grateful even if they keep me waiting for anything but plane rides and appointments I tell them are important.
I didn’t tell Mikey the owner why I was going to the doctor’s. I was too ashamed.
When I got to the doctor’s a nurse gave me a cup to pee in. Before peeing, I went to the sink in the bathroom to wash my hands. As I looked at the duct tape that kept the sink from working I realized three things: I automatically wash my hands before….; the sink was duct taped so people couldn’t drink copious amounts of water before peeing (that could I think work for somethings), put water in their pee (couldn’t work, I think); and I really needed to find a new doctor.
I passed the drug test. No there weren’t excessive amounts of any controlled substance in my body.
I have never felt so humiliated. So classless. So “ohmigod I am a criminal; it’s not my warped mind.”
Then I felt: How frigging dare they?
Once I was visiting my best friend in Atlanta and needed a prescription refilled. We began at a Kroger’s in South East Atlanta; six drugstores later we were in a private pharmacy in Buckhead—the pharmacist took one look at me, and filled the prescription.
Note to world: go to the richest part of town to fill a controlled substance prescription. The pharmacist will use judgment, something that’s apparently rare these days. If my friend had a regular pharmacist I would have gone to that pharmacy——that’s only common sense. But she was new in Atlanta then and….
Back to yesterday: They were very nice at the doctors. It was too late.
As I wasn’t going to New York I had errands to do. I must be an excellent actress because I found myself being oh so friendly. Frank, the pharmacist said: “It’s always lovely to see you. You brighten up everyone’s day.” Me: “Oh you say that to every woman, but thanks! I needed that!”By the time I arrived home I was exhausted. I cried. And cried. And cried. I’m too old to be treated this way.
Don’t tell me to get off this medication. It actually keeps me centered. About ten years ago I went to a number of doctors, both pharmapsychiatrists and addiction specialists. I found out that this isn’t considered addiction as I’m not abusing the medication.
I found out that no doctor will help me get off it as I need it. You know the old “nobody will tell a diabetic to get off insulin,” analogy.
I wish I had gone to New York as I need, now more than ever, to be with family. Yes, I do!