(I don’t usually name call but after yesterday, well…)

Guess who’s suspected of being a junkie again?

Yesterday afternoon I drop off my empty bottle of anti-depressant at CVS. The kind pharmacist says it’ll take ten minutes or so. I’m on my way to the coffee shop so tell her I’ll pick it up in a few hours.

A few hours later I walk back to the pharmacy and in the “Pick Up” line am told there’s no refill for me. As I try to explain the above, this pharmacist’s assistant repeatedly tells me to wait a few minutes and take a seat, refusing to let me speak. The kind pharmacist sees me and says she left me a voicemail that it’s too early to refill the prescription.

Apologies for the deja vu when I say you’re not supposed to abruptly stop taking this anti-depressant (any for that matter). She says I have to wait until the 7th, four days. I’d picked up this refill 10/17 (like I remember or care) and my insurance won’t OK more until the 7th. I’m flummoxed, baffled, pissed, but remain moderately calm.

I took my last pill this morning, I tell her. You know how I wait till the last minute to get refills, I say. Do you still have my empty bottle? She does and soon realizes that the refill I picked up 10/17 only contained 30 of the 60 pills I’m supposed to get. Unlike the male doctor, she apologizes profusely as she hands me a new bottle of the other 30. It’s OK, I say. No worries. We figured it out, that’s the important thing. I want to suggest an attitude adjustment to the rude pharmacist assistant, but I also just want to get the hell out of there.

I’m COUNTING the days until I’m a patient at PCRM’s new medical center, where they’ll do their best to get me off these toxic drugs.

Lack of communication is unhealthy.

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