One of my problem children pulled up to the drive through at 9:55. The pharmacy closes at 10. Problem child had a script to drop off. This person only comes to the drive through for a reason. Being a perpetual shoplifter, the manager banned them from the store. This person is such a shitty thief that they were caught multiple times by a guy who spends most of his time at work shooting the breeze with delivery men. They're so stupid that they think we don't know about this in the pharmacy. I haven't decided which is worse.
Problem Child: When will that be ready?
Me: I'm closing right now. You can come pick it up tomorrow.
Problem Child: What time do you open?
Another little piece of me died as I motioned to the sign hanging in the window that prominently displays the pharmacy's hours of operation. The script was for Vicodin (of course).
Me: We're open at 8 am.
Problem Child: Ok, we'll be back then!
I thought about telling them that by nighttime script fairy was currently in rehab as a result of dealing with the philistines all day, and the prescription would not be processed until the pharmacist returned at 8 am tomorrow morning. I decided to let nature take it's course instead.
______________________
Man: Where's your shoe polish?
A perfectly innocent question. It makes me want to salt the earth, burn the crops, and poison your children.
Me: I have absolutely no idea.
Most of the time I say something about 'find the manager' or 'ask the front store staff'. Instead I just returned to the 3 phone calls and 20 scripts waiting for me.
______________________
A girl dropped off a script from her doctor for Nuva Ring, a form of contraceptive. It's used intravaginally for 3 weeks, then taken out for 1 week. Wash, rinse, repeat. The instructions on the prescription from her doctor were to use 1 new ring every week. This is retarded. I called the doctor to inform them of this. Per usual, I got an answering machine at the doctor's office. I left a message letting them know that we'd need appropriate directions before filling the prescription. Normally, I would just fill the script with the correct instructions, but I wanted to see what their response would be. I was expecting something along the lines of 'oh, silly me, i was thinking of a different drug' or 'that new girl in the office got my instructions confused'. I got something entirely different.
Later on, I received a call on my voice mail for a new, vastly improved prescription for the girl's Nuva Ring. The directions were changed from 'use 1 ring weekly' to 'use as directed'. I almost hemorrhaged on the spot. I'm becoming more convinced by the day that doctors suddenly become cavemen once they touch the tip of a pen to a prescription pad.
30 January 2008
16 January 2008
Somnolent Success
I dispensed the the sleep medication Sonata this evening. It's pretty new, thus very expensive. I explained this to the man picking it up. I also explained that cheaper alternatives such as Ambien (which is now generic) are available and that he should talk to his doctor if he wanted something that wasn't so hard on the pocket book. When it's late and the pharmacy is slow, I have time to interact with people.
Man: Oh, no. I don't like Ambien. I'm a DUI attorney, and I know that people have problems with that medication. I have about 10 cases open right now that involve people getting in accidents after they've taken Ambien.
Insert your own joke.
Man: Oh, no. I don't like Ambien. I'm a DUI attorney, and I know that people have problems with that medication. I have about 10 cases open right now that involve people getting in accidents after they've taken Ambien.
Insert your own joke.
14 January 2008
Mr. McGoo
You can almost sense him coming before he's actually at the pharmacy. He carries with him an aura that you just don't feel on many people. I think it has something to do with the simple peace that you can feel emanating from simple people. Take away just the right amount of acumen from the average person and they wouldn't have a care in the world.
Mr. McGoo (that's what I call him) is about 6'2", heavyset, and not the quickest of cats at the best of times. He's usually wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt that's a size or two too small (he favors Nascar shirts). Tattoos adorn his knuckles that are almost surely the product of basement artists done in wee morning hours. One on his neck appears to be done by a more professional hand and says Sacrifice. He used to have long, stringy hair that stuck out of his baseball hat that he opted to shave just as the air turned cold (an odd choice I thought). Mr. McGoo makes many odd choices, though, so I guess it's really not that odd at all.
On his last visit to the pharmacy, he presented a handful of prescriptions from his most recent visit to his psychiatric physician. It's always prudent to check his medication history before filling everything he brings as most of the time only a portion of the prescriptions are due to be filled. While waiting for his medication, Mr. McGoo sat himself at the blood pressure machine. He lives nearby the pharmacy, but every time he arrives he's short of breath and needs to sit down. After getting a reading, he gave me a number that was classified as Stage I hypertension (aka too high). I punched up his profile.
Me: Mr. McGoo, you haven't filled your blood pressure medication in months.
Mr. McGoo: Oh, yeah, I haven't been taking that. I ran out.
Mr. McGoo is almost always accompanied by his mother. She sat in a chair next to the blood pressure machine chuckling. I say chuckling because that's exactly what it sounds like. It's actually a tic. Mother McGoo doesn't get her medication filled at my pharmacy, but I'd hazard a guess that she takes some of the same psychotropic medications as her son. I can only assume that they live together and have the mutual responsibility of taking care of each other.
Concerning 'normal' people, nonadherence to their therapy does not bother me. I would be content to let most of my patient's blood pressures run high until their kidneys fail and aneurysms bloom in their brains. It wouldn't bother me because most people know better. Mr. McGoo does not, so I offered a helpful suggestion:
Me: Mr. McGoo, you blood pressure is too high because you haven't been taking your blood pressure medication. Don't you think we should get that filled?
Mr. McGoo: Oh, you're probably right Spiffy! Thanks!
When Mr. McGoo signs the pickup log, it takes him a good minute and a half, sometimes two depending on how many he's picking up. I'm not exaggerating. I'm willing to bet the people in line behind him wonder what the hell he's doing. I'm fine with that. I'd rather watch Mr. McGoo pen a thousand signatures than deal with most of the 'normal' people.
Mr. McGoo (that's what I call him) is about 6'2", heavyset, and not the quickest of cats at the best of times. He's usually wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt that's a size or two too small (he favors Nascar shirts). Tattoos adorn his knuckles that are almost surely the product of basement artists done in wee morning hours. One on his neck appears to be done by a more professional hand and says Sacrifice. He used to have long, stringy hair that stuck out of his baseball hat that he opted to shave just as the air turned cold (an odd choice I thought). Mr. McGoo makes many odd choices, though, so I guess it's really not that odd at all.
On his last visit to the pharmacy, he presented a handful of prescriptions from his most recent visit to his psychiatric physician. It's always prudent to check his medication history before filling everything he brings as most of the time only a portion of the prescriptions are due to be filled. While waiting for his medication, Mr. McGoo sat himself at the blood pressure machine. He lives nearby the pharmacy, but every time he arrives he's short of breath and needs to sit down. After getting a reading, he gave me a number that was classified as Stage I hypertension (aka too high). I punched up his profile.
Me: Mr. McGoo, you haven't filled your blood pressure medication in months.
Mr. McGoo: Oh, yeah, I haven't been taking that. I ran out.
Mr. McGoo is almost always accompanied by his mother. She sat in a chair next to the blood pressure machine chuckling. I say chuckling because that's exactly what it sounds like. It's actually a tic. Mother McGoo doesn't get her medication filled at my pharmacy, but I'd hazard a guess that she takes some of the same psychotropic medications as her son. I can only assume that they live together and have the mutual responsibility of taking care of each other.
Concerning 'normal' people, nonadherence to their therapy does not bother me. I would be content to let most of my patient's blood pressures run high until their kidneys fail and aneurysms bloom in their brains. It wouldn't bother me because most people know better. Mr. McGoo does not, so I offered a helpful suggestion:
Me: Mr. McGoo, you blood pressure is too high because you haven't been taking your blood pressure medication. Don't you think we should get that filled?
Mr. McGoo: Oh, you're probably right Spiffy! Thanks!
When Mr. McGoo signs the pickup log, it takes him a good minute and a half, sometimes two depending on how many he's picking up. I'm not exaggerating. I'm willing to bet the people in line behind him wonder what the hell he's doing. I'm fine with that. I'd rather watch Mr. McGoo pen a thousand signatures than deal with most of the 'normal' people.
05 January 2008
Spiffy Ruins Back, Discovers The Wonders of Drugs
I used to think I was invincible. Now I know better.
Although I still consider myself a superhero I now know that I've discovered my kryptonite. It is the Hammer Strength crunch machine, and it can be found at gyms across America. I've been using this particular piece of equipment for a few weeks without knowing that it was laying in wait to destroy me.
I was at the gym on Friday afternoon doing my usual workout. I did one set on the crunch machine without incident. It looks like a chair with holders for your ankles and handles above your shoulders right by your ears. You sit down, put your ankles in the holders and grasp the handles by your ears. You then do a crunch, lifting your knees and pulling down on the handles. Sounds simple, right? Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong.
I did my first set of 10 reps without incident, as I have for the last couple weeks. On the second set I felt a sharp pain in my lower back.
Spiffy: Ouch! Shit.
I attempt a second rep, and my back responds that it does not want to do a second rep by sending shooting pains up and down my spine.
I stood up and walked around the gym for a bit thinking that the worst was over. Oh, how wrong I was. I got in my car to drive home and a steady discomfort was mounting as I got closer. By the time I was home, it was apparent that standing up and walking was no longer an option for me. I made it up to my room and prostrated myself on the floor, finally achieving some measure of relief. After about 10 minutes I decided it was time to get out of my smelly gym clothes and attempted to sit up. My lower back informed me that it did not want me to sit up. Or move around at all, for that matter.
I was finally able to roll over and crawl around about 3 hours later. After enough crawling my back loosened up to the point that I was able to stand, in a fashion. Standing meant walking bent over, hands on knees so that the weight was not on my lower back. As it was my weekend to work, I decided it may be prudent to find a replacement since Spiffy the Gimp wouldn't be going into work tomorrow.
Once I retrieved my phone, I got back down on the floor as my back decided that my little foray into ambulation was at an end. I first called TheBoss.
Spiffy: Hi, TheBoss. I did something to my back at the gym tonight and can't walk. I doubt I'll be able to work tomorrow.
TheBoss: Oh, no! Well, have you talked to ThePartner yet? I guess that would be the first step, is to ask ThePartner if they can work tomorrow. Let me know what you find out.
My boss felt so bad for me that she decided to let me find a replacement for my shift. It's good to know that people care. Fortunately, ThePartner did sympathize with my situation and told me not to worry about the weekend, she would cover me. Apparently, she spread the news about my crippled ass around work because Giggles and Sassy both called within a half hour and asked if I was OK, and if there was anything they could do. Giggles even offered to come make me dinner and drag my broke-ass around if need be. The message here is that the higher-ups don't give a shit, but the people you work with every day actually do.
So, I made it downstairs and medicated myself with ethanol, convincing myself that I would be in better shape in the morning.
Wrong again. I called Don'tWorryAboutIt from my bed and asked him to take me to the hospital. The ER doc there didn't examine me (thanks) but did give me some scripts for Vicodin and Skelaxin (a pain medication and a muscle relaxer). The sad thing is that I could have just gone to work and walked out with handfuls of this shit, saving myself the ER bill. The good thing is that these drugs are great! I took one of each and spend the rest of the afternoon in a drug induced doze.
I guess now I can understand why the hop-heads at my pharmacy like these medications so much. I don't think I'll ever understand how they spend every waking moment calling me to see if they can have more, though.
I've also earned some new nicknames amongst my roommates. I'm now Grandpa Spiffy, Gimpy and Lurch. Thanks, fellas.
Although I still consider myself a superhero I now know that I've discovered my kryptonite. It is the Hammer Strength crunch machine, and it can be found at gyms across America. I've been using this particular piece of equipment for a few weeks without knowing that it was laying in wait to destroy me.
I was at the gym on Friday afternoon doing my usual workout. I did one set on the crunch machine without incident. It looks like a chair with holders for your ankles and handles above your shoulders right by your ears. You sit down, put your ankles in the holders and grasp the handles by your ears. You then do a crunch, lifting your knees and pulling down on the handles. Sounds simple, right? Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong.
I did my first set of 10 reps without incident, as I have for the last couple weeks. On the second set I felt a sharp pain in my lower back.
Spiffy: Ouch! Shit.
I attempt a second rep, and my back responds that it does not want to do a second rep by sending shooting pains up and down my spine.
I stood up and walked around the gym for a bit thinking that the worst was over. Oh, how wrong I was. I got in my car to drive home and a steady discomfort was mounting as I got closer. By the time I was home, it was apparent that standing up and walking was no longer an option for me. I made it up to my room and prostrated myself on the floor, finally achieving some measure of relief. After about 10 minutes I decided it was time to get out of my smelly gym clothes and attempted to sit up. My lower back informed me that it did not want me to sit up. Or move around at all, for that matter.
I was finally able to roll over and crawl around about 3 hours later. After enough crawling my back loosened up to the point that I was able to stand, in a fashion. Standing meant walking bent over, hands on knees so that the weight was not on my lower back. As it was my weekend to work, I decided it may be prudent to find a replacement since Spiffy the Gimp wouldn't be going into work tomorrow.
Once I retrieved my phone, I got back down on the floor as my back decided that my little foray into ambulation was at an end. I first called TheBoss.
Spiffy: Hi, TheBoss. I did something to my back at the gym tonight and can't walk. I doubt I'll be able to work tomorrow.
TheBoss: Oh, no! Well, have you talked to ThePartner yet? I guess that would be the first step, is to ask ThePartner if they can work tomorrow. Let me know what you find out.
My boss felt so bad for me that she decided to let me find a replacement for my shift. It's good to know that people care. Fortunately, ThePartner did sympathize with my situation and told me not to worry about the weekend, she would cover me. Apparently, she spread the news about my crippled ass around work because Giggles and Sassy both called within a half hour and asked if I was OK, and if there was anything they could do. Giggles even offered to come make me dinner and drag my broke-ass around if need be. The message here is that the higher-ups don't give a shit, but the people you work with every day actually do.
So, I made it downstairs and medicated myself with ethanol, convincing myself that I would be in better shape in the morning.
Wrong again. I called Don'tWorryAboutIt from my bed and asked him to take me to the hospital. The ER doc there didn't examine me (thanks) but did give me some scripts for Vicodin and Skelaxin (a pain medication and a muscle relaxer). The sad thing is that I could have just gone to work and walked out with handfuls of this shit, saving myself the ER bill. The good thing is that these drugs are great! I took one of each and spend the rest of the afternoon in a drug induced doze.
I guess now I can understand why the hop-heads at my pharmacy like these medications so much. I don't think I'll ever understand how they spend every waking moment calling me to see if they can have more, though.
I've also earned some new nicknames amongst my roommates. I'm now Grandpa Spiffy, Gimpy and Lurch. Thanks, fellas.
03 January 2008
The New Year: Pharmacy Style!
When most people think of the new year, they think of resolutions: changes made for the better. The new year represents a chance to start off on the right foot. It means that you have the opportunity to modify your habits for a better life.
Ass-be-clean: Where are your colon cleansing kits?
Applephiliac: Uhh... what exactly did you need that for?
Ass-be-clean: Well, you know. I just wanted to start the new year off right!
The preceding interaction did not occur in my pharmacy. It occurred in my good friend Applephiliac's pharmacy. Apparently some people think that starting off the new year correctly means anal penetration followed by a brisk rinse cycle. God Bless.
Ass-be-clean: Where are your colon cleansing kits?
Applephiliac: Uhh... what exactly did you need that for?
Ass-be-clean: Well, you know. I just wanted to start the new year off right!
The preceding interaction did not occur in my pharmacy. It occurred in my good friend Applephiliac's pharmacy. Apparently some people think that starting off the new year correctly means anal penetration followed by a brisk rinse cycle. God Bless.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
