A Visit To The Pharmacy

This week, the SJG has paid many un-fun visits to a giant pharmaceutical empire that in my brain now resembles the DMV.  The only difference is this version of Hell grants me a license to kvetch and doesn't take my photograph, which at this stage, is a very good thing. My current facial color palate is chartreuse.  When I first arrive, I weave in and out of aisles, erratically, drunk on frustration, till I find the long trail of customers waiting in the Pick-Up Line.  (Note to self: cute idea for singles bar scene?  Would certainly clarify the mating dance.)  After I wait in the long line, memorizing all the colonoscopy-prep products, and reliving my own disastrous prepping ritual -- please, let's not go into the plumbing issues that led to a brand new driveway -- the Pick-Up Line gal beckons me forth and rudely asks my age -- "I'm 39, I told you that yesterday, and the day before" -- and informs me the giant pharmaceutical empire hasn't filled my 19th prescription of the week.  Not yet.  Or they never got the prescription.  "But my doctor called it in yesterday."  "You can go check in Drop-Off, but it's not in our system."  "But -- "  "Next!"

I go stand in Drop-Off, where you're supposed to drop-off your prescription, or, in my case, what's left of my sanity.  I stand and wait, eyeing the revolving rack of self-help books. "Letting Go Of Anger While Standing In Giant Pharmaceutical Empire Plotting Revenge" sounds good.  I grab a copy and read it in its entirety before I'm finally motioned forth by the Drop-Off person.  I give my name, my shoe size, my fictional birth date.  "We don't have your prescription in our system."  "Why the @#$% not?" I say, per page 22 of the self-help book I've just devoured.  "We'll send a note to the doctor.  Check back with us later."  I stare at her, harshly, per page 25 of the self-help book, till she calls "Next!" I go home and call my doctor's office.  "We called it in yesterday.  We'll call it in again."

Two minutes later, I get an automated phone call from the giant pharmaceutical empire.  "Hello.  This call is for the Short Jewish Gal of Sherman Oaks.  Your prescription has now been filled. Mazel tov, and happy Easter.  Come pick it up at your convenience." I get back in the car, I drive to the place that resembles the DMV, only worse.  I wait in the Pick-Up Line.  I look at the products for stomach distress, most of them caused by waiting in line at the giant pharmaceutical empire.  The Pick-Up Line gal beckons me forth.  Then tells me to go back two spaces, a la Candy Land.  "Sorry, that woman was first."  I step back.  I wait again.  Then she beckons me forth.  Before she hands me my prescription, she tells me, "You need to see the pharmacist."  I start to weep, uncontrollably.  "Why?  WHY?  WHY?!'  "She wants to have a word with you."  "WHY?  Have I done something wrong?!"  "No, I"m sure it's fine."  "I don't want to see the pharmacist."  "You have to."  "FINE!"

I pay for my drugs, I get in the Consultation Line and quietly self-destruct.  The pharmacist steps forward and says, "I'm just wondering why we're filling this prescription for Prednisone again, when we filled it last week."  "My doctor has me on a high dosage.  I start with six and then go down to four, three, two, one, etc.  It takes a while for my cough to go away.  Which is why I have to keep coming back here.  Can I go now?  Please?  I'll pay extra.  Just please, let me out of here."  "You may go, but trust me, you'll be back."  "Tell me something I don't know."