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.
16 January 2008
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.
28 December 2007
There Goes The Neighborhood
I met my future neighbor today. She may have just passed muster.
I was leaving for work, and as the garage door was opening I spied a car at the end of my driveway. My real estate agent was in the passenger side, so I approached to say hi. It turns out that she and the newest resident of the neighborhood were stopping by her house (which is still under construction) to check on it's progress. Here's some examples of the conversation that lead me to believe she may be a better time than the rest of my neighborhood:
I was leaving for work, and as the garage door was opening I spied a car at the end of my driveway. My real estate agent was in the passenger side, so I approached to say hi. It turns out that she and the newest resident of the neighborhood were stopping by her house (which is still under construction) to check on it's progress. Here's some examples of the conversation that lead me to believe she may be a better time than the rest of my neighborhood:
- Have you guys thrown any good parties yet? Once I'm moved in, you better invite me.
- Do you know how to drink? I make a mean martini.
- (real estate agent) told me you have a hot tub. Can I use it whenever I want?
22 December 2007
Saturday Sampler
Today at the pharmacy was busy, as all the pill-poppers are still ramping up for the holiday season. Getting through family gatherings sans Xanax and Vicodin can be a daunting, miserable pursuit. People came to see me not only to procure apothecary goods, but also knowledge.
Woman: Where is the expiration date on these batteries? I can't find it.
The batteries are at the front of the Corpopharm that I work in. The pharmacy is located in the back. That means this woman picked up the batteries and then wandered aimlessly to the farthest possible point within the confines of the store from where she started to find yours truly. I guess it was meant to be.
Me: I don't know. I don't know a thing about batteries.
She appeared defeated, but only for a second. She perked up and soldiered on:
Woman: It's usually printed right on the package! Where is it?!?
I stood there, struggling with the urge to tear out her ovaries, disabling her ability to reproduce retarded battery seeking offspring. Reason ruled out, and I settled for a subtle if indirect insult:
Me: They probably last forever. At that price, you can't afford not to buy them.
By 11 AM, it was sleeting. By 1 PM, it was snowing. In my area of the country, precipitation reduces driving IQ by an average of 40 points. I've previously lived a few degrees latitude north of here. As such this weather seems pretty mild to me. To these people the weather today meant the storm of century. I expected this would keep people off the roads and out of my pharmacy. No such luck. The good times just kept pouring in.
One couple brought in a shitload of scripts from a hospital discharge. At first they loitered by the blood pressure monitor, staring at it as if it was some kind of torture device. Being the caring pharmacist that I am, I interluded.
Me: Do you guys have any prescriptions to drop off?
Guy: Well yeah!!
Shit, pardon me. They proceeded to hand off a stack of scripts that Dr. McShittyhandwriting apparently had his epileptic monkey transcribe for him. Hoo-ray. A note to anyone reading this: the quality of your physicians penmanship is directly proportional to how much they like you. I decided to ask the most obvious question you can ask in a pharmacy:
Me: Are you guys going to wait for these or come back later?
Lady (with guy): I'm not going back out there! The weather's terrible!
I would tell most people that brought me 10 brand new scripts to fly a kite if they planned on waiting for them. 10 new prescriptions can take some time, and I wanted to makes sure my two newest friends had realistic expectations.
Me: It will be at least a half hour to get all these ready. You guys can have a seat and I'll call you when they're ready.
The lady rolled her eyes, and the guy favored me with a scowl. I love people.
Woman: Where is the expiration date on these batteries? I can't find it.
The batteries are at the front of the Corpopharm that I work in. The pharmacy is located in the back. That means this woman picked up the batteries and then wandered aimlessly to the farthest possible point within the confines of the store from where she started to find yours truly. I guess it was meant to be.
Me: I don't know. I don't know a thing about batteries.
She appeared defeated, but only for a second. She perked up and soldiered on:
Woman: It's usually printed right on the package! Where is it?!?
I stood there, struggling with the urge to tear out her ovaries, disabling her ability to reproduce retarded battery seeking offspring. Reason ruled out, and I settled for a subtle if indirect insult:
Me: They probably last forever. At that price, you can't afford not to buy them.
By 11 AM, it was sleeting. By 1 PM, it was snowing. In my area of the country, precipitation reduces driving IQ by an average of 40 points. I've previously lived a few degrees latitude north of here. As such this weather seems pretty mild to me. To these people the weather today meant the storm of century. I expected this would keep people off the roads and out of my pharmacy. No such luck. The good times just kept pouring in.
One couple brought in a shitload of scripts from a hospital discharge. At first they loitered by the blood pressure monitor, staring at it as if it was some kind of torture device. Being the caring pharmacist that I am, I interluded.
Me: Do you guys have any prescriptions to drop off?
Guy: Well yeah!!
Shit, pardon me. They proceeded to hand off a stack of scripts that Dr. McShittyhandwriting apparently had his epileptic monkey transcribe for him. Hoo-ray. A note to anyone reading this: the quality of your physicians penmanship is directly proportional to how much they like you. I decided to ask the most obvious question you can ask in a pharmacy:
Me: Are you guys going to wait for these or come back later?
Lady (with guy): I'm not going back out there! The weather's terrible!
I would tell most people that brought me 10 brand new scripts to fly a kite if they planned on waiting for them. 10 new prescriptions can take some time, and I wanted to makes sure my two newest friends had realistic expectations.
Me: It will be at least a half hour to get all these ready. You guys can have a seat and I'll call you when they're ready.
The lady rolled her eyes, and the guy favored me with a scowl. I love people.
20 December 2007
Spiffy Takes PIC, Gets Partner
PIC means pharmacist in charge. By law, each and every pharmacy in George's America must have a PIC. The PIC has several responsibilities that they must perform to conform to pharmacy rules and regulations. I would go into detail, but it's incredibly boring. For those of you outside of the pharmacy, this may sound like a promotion. Don't be fooled. The PIC title basicly saddles you with more responsibility and less freedom.
The good news is that now I have a partner. No, not the gay kind. Since I started in my pharmacy in July I've been the only full time pharmacist. My pharmacy is open 88 hours each week. I'm there around 50 usually. This means that for the hours I am not here, Corpopharm has supplied me with 'floater' pharmacists. 'Floaters' are pharmacists that are employed by Corpopharm to fill in the gaps at pharmacies that are not fully staffed. They work in different pharmacies every day, and are generally the shitiest pharmacists you'll find within any company. Here's some examples of the quality work floaters have done in my pharmacy.
Floater A informs Patient A that his prescription isn't ready yet because of an insurance issue. Patient A asks for an explanation. Floater A threatens to call the police.
Floater B doesn't like how often the phone is ringing. He proceeds to walk around the pharmacy unplugging handsets from the telephones and depositing them in trash.
Floater C explains to me that she took back a frozen vaccine that had been dispensed to a patient because it didn't feel cold. I open up the freezer, remove an icepack that is frozen solid and sitting adjacent to the vaccine, and ask her what it is. Floater C responds: 'An icepack'. I respond: 'Keep repeating that until you get it'.
Floater D tells me as I'm walking into the pharmacy that there's a patient on hold with a question. I Floater D why they aren't taking care of it, and Floater D responds ,'I don't know the answer, I've just kept putting them on hold the last 10 minutes.'
I wish I were making this shit up.
The good news is that now I have a partner. No, not the gay kind. Since I started in my pharmacy in July I've been the only full time pharmacist. My pharmacy is open 88 hours each week. I'm there around 50 usually. This means that for the hours I am not here, Corpopharm has supplied me with 'floater' pharmacists. 'Floaters' are pharmacists that are employed by Corpopharm to fill in the gaps at pharmacies that are not fully staffed. They work in different pharmacies every day, and are generally the shitiest pharmacists you'll find within any company. Here's some examples of the quality work floaters have done in my pharmacy.
Floater A informs Patient A that his prescription isn't ready yet because of an insurance issue. Patient A asks for an explanation. Floater A threatens to call the police.
Floater B doesn't like how often the phone is ringing. He proceeds to walk around the pharmacy unplugging handsets from the telephones and depositing them in trash.
Floater C explains to me that she took back a frozen vaccine that had been dispensed to a patient because it didn't feel cold. I open up the freezer, remove an icepack that is frozen solid and sitting adjacent to the vaccine, and ask her what it is. Floater C responds: 'An icepack'. I respond: 'Keep repeating that until you get it'.
Floater D tells me as I'm walking into the pharmacy that there's a patient on hold with a question. I Floater D why they aren't taking care of it, and Floater D responds ,'I don't know the answer, I've just kept putting them on hold the last 10 minutes.'
I wish I were making this shit up.
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