It started as a good day.
I got up exercised, had coffee, got online. You know, the usual stuff. While reading I came across this from my doctor. "I can call the other pharmacy if you don't get it by 10 a.m. today." That means, back to Duane Reade. That's just peachy. I go through the motions of living like a human being on this great green Earth. I hate to go to Duane Reade Pharmacy.
Once there, Counter Guy is not there. Another woman is. She goes into the back and comes out with my COL- CHICINE nice and easy, lays it down and tells me that it'll cost me twenty six dollars. That my insurance didn't cover it. What?? "You'll have to contact your social worker. You've reached your limit of medicine this year." That would be fucking fine if it wasn't JANUARY!! I didn't say this to her though, because she might dive over the counter and drive a hypodermic syringe into my eye or something like that. You know me and catastrophizing.
So, I limp back home without the fucking COLCHICINE. I don't know the first thing about going to social services to find my case worker. I'd have better luck finding GOD. I never had it to do before. Now I have to do it and do it fast, because I'm running low and running out of my meds. That's not good. It'll send me to the hospital really quick. And there is no way in the world that I could afford all of those damn medications without some sort of insurance.
I send another email to my doctor for answers. He sends me a reply that I have to go to social services. Shit. My Housing Coordinator from The Box emails me to say hello. So I pose the question to her. She doesn't get back to me. At all.
Fuck.
It's cold outside. Approaching 15 degrees. I have a session with my therapist that I don't want to go on because it's just so cold and my foot is just so fucked up. I pop two TYLENOL and pray that shit works. I ruminate, like a stewing vegetable. And then I make a decision. Go for the gusto. Stay home and fuck limping all the way down to lower Manhattan. I'll do that shit tomorrow, and will probably go to social services on top of it.
I email everybody and tell them I'm not coming, going, doing it, not doing it, going here, not going there. I cancel every motherfucking thing and kick up my fucking foot. But not so fast. I remember that there is a form that I am sent once every few months that tells me how many pharmaceutical units that I have left. I remember seeing the damn thing. What I'm supposed to do when I get these things is to give them to Doc. A. Now I have a stack of papers on the floor, stashed away nicely. I lift all of this stack, sit it in my lap, and go through it, one at a time until I find one that reads:
"You have used 26 pharmacy services from February 2, 2008 to the date of this letter. At the rate you are receiving pharmacy services you will each your current threshold before the end of your benefit year. As of the date of this letter you have only 14 services remaining"
BINGO MOTHERFUCKER!! I found the FUCKING form. Now I had to scan it and email it to Doc A. I hope he remembers how to deal with it. He can get that way. But the man's a fucking genius I tell you.
It's kind of a relief. Now that I found that form, it may mean that I don't have to go all the way down into Brooklyn to find some elusive person that I've only met once or twice in my entire life. All this while fighting with a million other dregs of society like myself. I'll see what the doc says to me in the morning. Or when I see him on Friday. Either way I'll touch base with him tomorrow.
So this day winds down. My toe goes down too. The pain is fading.
HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2009/01/whatever-i-going-to-do.html
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