My Beautiful Brain # 6

Welcome to episode # 6 of me chronicling the adventures of my beautiful and sputtering brain.

I pick up my prescriptions from a local pharmacy. It is the only pharmacy within 20 miles of where I’m at. It looks like a Hallmark Store and a Walgreen’s had a baby.

They’re pretty good at taking care of my scripts, and I’ve never had an issue with them at all, even if I can sometimes feel the older employees keeping a close eye on me in case I try to shoplift. The pharmacy is in a village that isn’t big enough to be called a town, and stoner hippie artists with crazy curly hair are more rare than Elvis sightings. It’s the one thing I hate the very most about living in a small community. I don’t blend in well.

I never had an issue with my pharmacy until three weeks back. My psychiatrist and I have decided on our first med change of the year! Hoo-ray! He sent in two scripts, and that coincided with two refills for other meds, and I stopped in to pick them up.

This pharmacy is in a village, but they do things the same as everywhere. When you walk in you wait 10 feet away in line, until it’s your turn at the counter. When you get there you tell them your birthdate. They ask if your name is this and you say “yes.” They bring over a little see through plastic bag with a big white clip built into its handle. The meds are inside of it, already in their small white bag, and that white bag is stapled shut with receipt and barcodes. I almost never stop and look at what I’m picking up. They scan the barcodes and ask if I have any questions, and I say “no” and scribble my name on a digital pad with a fake plastic pen.

On this visit, needing the new psych meds, I ripped the white paper pharmacy bag open as soon as I got home, and dumped the pill bottles onto my desk in my camper, The Scrapes of Wrath. Wait! What the hell!? There were only three bottles of pills and I was supposed to have four. Motherfuck. Where is the new anxiety medication?

I pick up the white paper bag that has a receipt and four barcodes stapled to it, and it is clearly empty. There are only three bottles on my desk. I scan the floor in case a bottle of pills achieved the one-in-a-trillion odds of growing feet and walking away. There are no bottles there, mutant or otherwise. I pick up my Obama phone and call the pharmacy.

A pharmacy counter clerk answers. I say, “hey, I didn’t get my anxiety meds.” She says, “hold on, what’s your birthday,” and we go through the rigamarole pharmacies put us all through to bring up our accounts.

She says, “It says you’re not due for a refill until next month.” I say, “what? I never even got the prescription for this month,” and she says, “Oh, well it says here that you signed for it and three others just a little bit ago.” I say, “I understand that ma’am. I have three pill bottles on my desk and four barcodes stapled on the paper bag. There are no anxiety meds, though.” She says, “will you double check?” and my voice elevates slightly as I say, “check what exactly? The empty bag?” and she says, “hold on. Let me transfer you to the pharmacist.”

It is at this juncture of the story, where I sat on hold for two or three minutes, that I would like to remind you, dear reader, that I was once a UAW chief union steward, and that when the situation calls for it, I have no problem with putting that metaphorical union steward’s hat back on and advocating for myself in this case, or for others in many other cases.

The pharmacist comes on the phone, “May I help you, sir?” and I explain my missing pill bottle situation. He puts me through the rigamarole that pharmacies put us all through to bring up our accounts. He says, “It says you picked it up and signed for it just a little while ago,” and I say, “I understand that Sir, but I have three pill bottles on my desk and I’m supposed to have four. Where are the anxiety meds? They must be laying around somewhere over there,” and he says, “Sir, we have a photo with all four bottles in the bag. We take a photo of each bag before we staple them shut. Could you check one more time?”

My voice elevated to mid-range union steward. At full range, back when I was still in the Jeep factory, I could be heard two or three sections of the assembly line over. I say, “What the fuck do you want me to check? I have an empty fucking bag and three pill bottles next to it. Do you want me to retrace my steps and see if it jumped out the fucking window on the way home?” And the pharmacist goes quiet for about 15 seconds before saying, “You know what? It’s not a controlled substance. I’ll just fill it and it will be here waiting for you sir. I’m sorry there was an issue.”

My voice drops down to my professional steward’s voice. I say, “Very well sir. I appreciate that,” and we both say our polite goodbyes and hang up.

As soon as I set my Obama phone down on my desk, I realize that I’m holding the anxiety medication in my left hand, my fist curled around it. I called the pharmacy back within 30 seconds, and got a different counter clerk, and I asked for the pharmacist. He came on the phone and I said I was sorry about 30 times, and tried to explain that I sometimes have brain issues. He assures me that it’s not a big deal and says he’s grateful I called him back. I suggest they add a note on my account stating that I have issues and to please take that in consideration when dealing with me.

After we hung up I sat down in my camper and cried for a good 10 or 15 minutes. Long enough to go through a handful of tissues. All I could think about was how unfair the world is. I’ve worked so hard since I got sober, to learn to be the kindest human I can be, and now I sometimes get upset and angry at innocent people that don’t deserve it. This is not the man that I want to be at all.

I wiped my tears, and talked to a partner and a close friend about it, I hoped that I would eventually find some humor in the situation. I would have taken the pharmacists some flowers if I could have afforded them, but the next time I picked up a prescription, I found just the chuckle I needed. Now my pill bottles, the receipt and the barcodes come to me at the counter loose in the clear plastic bag with the white handle clip. Now the clerk has to scan each barcode and drop the matching pill bottle into the white paper bag in front of me, and now it takes me three minutes longer than before to pick up my meds.

I chuckled because I am learning, and failing, and learning some more to accept that this is who I am right at this moment, and like I have for most of the 7,239 days that I’ve been sober, I am doing the best that I can.

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I was attempting to imitate the buddy Christ, but it’s still good enough for a meme

I do have a better diagnosis for my brain issues, and I’m real damn grateful that it isn’t dementia, but it’s still moderate impairments that are having a wide-ranging affect on how my brain operates. More neurologist appointments to go. There’s meds, therapies and daily brain exercises that will help, and I’m still more mad about it than I am closer to acceptance. That’s pretty normal. I’ll get there, and I’ll keep on writing, trying to be kind, and doing the best I can, one more day at a time.

I hope that you enjoyed the story. Writing these are cathartic, and they help me to find the humor in the absurd.

Love,

Dan