Since medical woes have been keeping me from blogging the way I’d like, I thought I’d share one of my experiences this holiday season that involved medications.
I take several life-essential meds to replace the production of glands that atrophied when I lost my pituitary to a tumor in 1984. It’s not a wonderful life, but it’s a life, thanks to artificial hormones that have replaced most of what was lost.
Among those meds is something called DDAVP or desmopressin. Be very glad you’ve never heard of the substance: it’s a hormone that keeps your kidneys from sending too much processed water (urine) to the bladder. Without it, you die by drying up, in a very unpleasant way.
About a week ago, I saw I was soon to run out, so I called my supplier, the New England Mail Order Pharmacy, to request a refill. NEMOP sounds big but it’s nothing more than a small area behind the Marble Works Pharmacy in Middlebury’s Marble Works Complex, run by the same people. They said the prescription had run out, so they would fax the endocrinology unit of Fletcher-Allen Health Care about the need to have it renewed. Shortly before Christmas, I checked back to see if Fletcher-Allen had sent a new prescription. Nope.
So called Hospital F, and finally got an office staff member on the line who said she’d be SURE to have the nurse notify NEMOP. She sounded so helpful that I didn’t follow up. The next day, I called NEMOP: nope, no prescription.
With only a few pills left, I was facing a genuine medical emergency, which no one would be around to help with during the upcoming Christmas break except at the Porter Medical Center emergency room. I called Neshobe Family Medicine in Brandon, where William Barrett is my primary physician. He wasn’t there, but the person I spoke to was very helpful and understanding and said she’s have someone call in an emergency 10-day prescription to NEMOP. These were people I knew and trusted, so the next day I went to the Marble Works Pharmacy, where the emergency supply was to have been called in. Nothing.
The pharmacy let me use their phone, and I called Neshobe. The message said they had gone on their lunch break, though in reality they had gone for the day (this was the day before Christmas). But the answering service connected me to the person doing emergency backup for the practice, and he understood (after a lenghthy explanation that included the words “Help me, Obi-wan Konobe, you’re my only hope!”) and did call in an emergency prescription to Marble Works. Outside in the car, my wife was wondering why simply picking up some meds was taking half an hour.
When the pills were at last in their bottle and the bottle was in the paper bag, I waited at the counter where another client was ahead of me in line. It was a woman buying insulin for her diabetic rescue cat—nearly $100 worth out of her own pocket, bless her soul.
That transaction went smoothly enough, but only because everyone was very understanding about one detail: to release the medication, the pharmacy needed to have the woman sign an electronic signature form indicating that her cat had refused counseling and understood its rights under the federal health privacy act.
I hope laughter is as healing as some people say it is.
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