I love any absurd Twitter hashtag game, like #FatIndieBands or #TrueLoveInFourWords or whatnot, but I always get a little deflated by the fact that, by the time I realize they are happening, people have thought of everything already. So I thought I would make my own…

Ruin a childhood toy in one letter:

Lite Bite

Rainbow Brute

Skinky

My Little Phony

GI Joke

See N Pay

Power Heels

Kinker Toys

Not going to lie–I had a pretty strong level of hubris about my abilities here, and thought this was going to turn out way better than it did.

Ugh. I’m tired of this story (so tired, apparently, that I avoided finishing it for a month. Um…summer break?) But anyway:

(Part 1 and Part 2)

Having had no luck at the doctor’s office in its many and varied forms and no luck at my normal pharmacy, I tried my case at City MD, where I had been assured that they “routinely write same-day prescriptions for SSRIs.” I went there prepared to pay $125 out of pocket to be seen, since for some reason they take all major insurance except for mine. I signed in on their fancy iPad, I was called back to a room and required to sign something stating that I would pay out of pocket, which made me immediately suspicious, and I spoke to a physician’s assistant about why I was there (I tried to give her a short version. Are you surprised that I did NOT succeed at that?) She went to get the doctor…and I sat in their weird industrial lazy-boy thinking that this was potentially going to end the same way it had with the doctor and the pharmacist–that is, with no Zoloft and a proclamation of “My hands are tied.”

(I was right!)

(Well, it was “It’s a liability issue,” if we want to be verbatim)

They said BOTH the doctor’s office and the pharmacy had been negligent. They were also intent on explaining that it wasn’t just SSRIs; if I had walked in needing a blood pressure medicine prescription, they wouldn’t have been able to write that either, even if I had records (I HAD SCREENSHOTS) of being prescribed it up until now.

So…you would just let someone walk out without the blood pressure medicine that’s keeping them alive, then?

(I fully understand that in a lot of ways, their hands ARE tied by the system, which is so utterly fucked that I can only be grateful this wasn’t a life or death issue like, well, blood pressure medication).

I think that was the point at which I started checking with friends to see if anyone took Zoloft. No! Here an Effexor, there an Effexor, some Prozac, a Lexapro…aha! In Connecticut lay my salvation–a friend who had STOPPED taking Zoloft and could bring me an entire bottle when we met up later that week. So at least I only had to worry about four more days of feeling like my brain was shivering jello and that my edges were blurring (yes, I was reading a lot of Ferrante just before this adventure).

I am aware that health care professionals will frown upon medication borrowing or re-gifting. I’ll stop doing it when the healthcare system stops imitating Kafka.

In addition, I would actually be able to pick up my (incorrect) prescription the day after that! An embarrassment of antidepressants.

And FURTHER, I would be seeing the doctor that same day to get a new prescription written!

But first…I had the next four days.

TO WRAP UP: The following day I went to the pharmacy where my prescription (with the incorrect dosage) had most recently been filled, told them that my regular pharmacy had said that they, the new pharmacy, should have given me a week’s worth of pills, and received the response of, “We can only do that when someone doesn’t HAVE a prescription, or is in-between prescriptions.”

I said, “I understand that this isn’t your fault and that there’s nothing you can do about it, but I just want to clarify: You’re telling me you can’t give me six Zoloft now, but you’re happy to give me 90 on Wednesday?”

And then, almost off the cuff, I said, “This is a generic that costs pennies–I can’t just BUY some?”

“Oh!” the pharmacy cashier said, “you want to pay for some out of pocket?”

Words had already failed me, so they did one better and died, then came back to haunt me. I managed to stammer that YES, I would be thrilled to do that.

It was $12 for 6 pills. Why did no one suggest this in the preceding four days?? I was so relieved I started crying when I thanked the cashier, who looked embarrassed and said, “It’s okay! You’re getting them! You don’t have to cry!”

And that was how I walked out of Duane Reade as the happiest person ever to pay 1000% markup on something.

There are two punchlines to this story:

  1. The morning of my doctor’s appointment, I woke to a voicemail from the office…saying, “I’m sorry, but the doctor called in sick today, so your appointment is canceled. Please call us to confirm you got this.”

When I called the number they specified–at 9:15 am–I reached a message that said “You have reached our after-hours answering service. The office is now closed. Our regular business hours are Monday-Friday, 8:30 am to 8 pm…”

Because of its proximity and just how punchy I was feeling, I decided to just go to the doctor’s office on foot. I continued trying the number as I walked there, so I could be really justified in my righteousness. Some things happened there–I spoke with the site director, who was a giant man and looked like he hated having to deign to use a tiny keyboard, and who said he didn’t really understand the computer system (I was hoping to see where my voicemails and the theoretical emails that had been sent on my behalf had ended up); he told me he could try to schedule and appointment for me later that day, but he didn’t know when it would be; he asked me, “What do you want?” and I managed to refrain from leaning forward and hissing dramatically “I want to NEVER COME BACK HERE AGAIN”–but now this is not a punchline but an episode, so I will stop.

2. So you know that I don’t think I’m blameless in this fiasco: A few days later, brain feeling normal again and with enough generic Zoloft to dump out and Scrooge McDuck around in, I went to visit relatives for the weekend. When I reached into one of my bag’s pockets to get my travel toothbrush, I found a tiny tupperware container…WITH NINE TABS OF ZOLOFT in it. I must have never unpacked it after traveling back in March or June.

The end.

 

 

 

 

I thought this was going to be a two-part post but it seems it’s going to be three parts.

After not being able to pick up my prescription from the pharmacy on Tuesday night, I started calling the doctor’s office on Wednesday morning. The first time, I left a two-minute message with the administrative assistant’s voicemail. When I hadn’t heard back by Wednesday afternoon, I called again. This time the I tried the appointment line. As soon as I reached a human and said, “Hi, I’m having a problem with my prescription–” they forwarded me to the front desk of the doctor’s office.

There, the phone rang endlessly with no answer. Later that afternoon, I called the appointment line again, was transferred again, and left a message with the receptionist (she assured me that the doctor would call me back by the end of the day…)

I foolishly hoped that having left messages in two places, someone would indeed call me back by the end of the day or by Thursday morning. Hope springs eternal! I had 50 mg of generic Zoloft left, 1/3 of my usual dose, that I took Wednesday morning.

On Thursday, I called the doctor’s office six times. I left a message on the administrative assistant’s voicemail again. I called the appointment line and was transferred to the front desk again, where I spoke to a different receptionist who assured me…that the doctor would call me back by the end of the day. I called the appointment line at the end of the day and was transferred to the nurse’s station, where the phone rang 26 times before I hung up.

Thursday evening I talked to a friend who is a pharmacist, who told me to go to my usual pharmacy–not the typhoid-vaccine pharmacy where my prescription was mistakenly sent–and that they should give me a week’s worth of sertraline for free. “This is a generic drug that literally costs pennies,” he said, “and it’s not a controlled substance. There’s no reason they shouldn’t give it to you.”

On Friday morning, I called the doctor’s office again. I recounted the messages I’d left and the people I had talked to on Wednesday and Thursday. I said I had screenshots (true) from my online patient portal showing that my prescription was noted as 150 mg/day back in my August and December visit summaries, then disappeared for no apparent reason, then reappeared as 100 mg/day in later appointment summaries.

(No one was particularly interested in hearing about my screenshots).

All that the appointment line could do for me–understandably–was give me a doctor’s appointment. For Monday morning. “What am I supposed to do until then?” I asked. “Honestly, I don’t know. There’s nothing else I can do for you. This is a call center. Have you tried sending a message to the doctor who wrote the prescription? You can send her a message through your patient portal.” “I can’t send her a message because I’ve never actually met her…she wrote the prescription, but she isn’t my doctor, so she isn’t listed in my contacts on the portal…”

We both threw up our hands and hung up, basically.

After that, thinking that at least I’d have this issue fixed by Monday, I went to my normal pharmacy to ask if they could give me six pills to get me through Monday/Tuesday, since I had now not taken Zoloft for three days and was starting to get the brain-pulsing feeling of withdrawal.

My regular pharmacy looked into their database and saw that, yep, I had been filling my 150 mg/day Zoloft/sertraline prescription there for the past two years…but “We can’t give you any extra pills because we aren’t the last pharmacy that filled the prescription.”

“But…the pharmacy that filled it won’t give me any extra because they aren’t my regular pharmacy, so they don’t know me, and all their records say is that I take 100 mg/day.”

“Well, that pharmacy didn’t do right by you. They should have given you extra pills.”

This would become the recurring theme–“such an such other person really did wrong by you…but unfortunately, MY hands are tied.”

To be continued…

 

 

Let me talk more about the Kafka-esque nightmare of the healthcare system, EVEN WITH reasonable insurance and a doctor’s office down the street from me. I don’t even want to think about what would/will happen if/when the system we do have is dismantled and replaced by something worse…

I guess this was precipitated back in March when I needed a typhoid vaccination…in that the pharmacy that had the oral typhoid vaccine is going to come into play in this story.

So my prescription for Zoloft (correction: for generic Zoloft, AKA sertraline) is written by my general practitioner (though that’s not any one person, as there’s constant turnover at the office I go to), after initially being prescribed by a psychiatric nurse practitioner. The doctor’s office usually writes it with 6 or 12 months of refills. At the end of May, I was out of refills and coming to the end of my month’s supply, so I called to get an appointment to have the prescription rewritten (the other benefit to this particular practice is that, in addition to being a five-minute walk from me, it’s generally easy to get an appointment for the next day or at worst a few days later, especially if you don’t care which doctor you see). This time, though, the appointment line told me that their earliest appointment was…for two weeks later. When I would not only be out of medication but also out of town.

Plot twist!

No matter–since I’ve been going to this practice for a long time, and since I have extenuating circumstances of traveling soon, the doctor on call can call in a new prescription for me.

She did call it into the pharmacy that I got the typhoid vaccine from, not my regular pharmacy, but whatever; it was $7 more for the prescription and only four subway stops away.

And it seemed they had done me a favor until I ran out of pills last week, called the pharmacy for a refill, got confirmation that my refill was ready, went to pick it up…and was told I couldn’t have it yet, because it was too soon. (Side note: if pharmacies can automate calling you to tell you you’re due for a refill…and that your refill is ready…why can’t they automate the “sorry, it’s too early to refill this prescription!” notice?)

So that was when I realized that the doctor – whom I’d never met in person – had written the prescription for the wrong dose…which is, yes, something I should have checked when I initially filled it, but I was so happy to have it that I didn’t examine the bottle too closely. Thus what was written as a three-month supply was actually only a two-month supply with the actual dose that I take. Even with the pharmacy’s “leniency,” I wouldn’t be able to get a refill for another week (and then it would still be the wrong amount of medicine). I asked them what I could do. They said I could call the doctor’s office and it would be fast and easy–just have the doctor call them and change the prescription! Oh, but if it’s a different dose, then it has to be a new prescription so that we can run it through your insurance again…

If it had to be a new prescription, I was going to have it sent to the pharmacy down the street. So I left and went home to call the doctor…to begin this “easy” task of having my prescription rewritten.

to be continued so I don’t start laugh-crying.

 

Or as Tracy Morgan would say, “WORDPLAY”

Inconsonance: When you just can’t stop your p’s, t’s, and q’s from dribbling out of your mouth.

Planner + Flaneur = planeur – someone who is pretending to wander but is actually really anal and has set out a specific path.

Slur-gery (I can’t claim coming up with this one–just defining it): Drunkenly performing an operation on someone.

This is only tangentially related but the other day I misread “instagrammable” as “mammogramable”

Los Angeles always gets me with how amazing everything smells. I could just walk the hills smelling things all day.

I encountered some excellent animals and plants in LA and San Diego. Here they are:

I need to magically become a graphic designer so I can draw this map.

Sad Brooklyn:

Frown Heights

Dark Slope

Upset Park

Bensonhurts

Fort Mean

Boredom Hill

Squabble Hill

Gowahhhhhhnus

Prospect Fights

Phony Island

Vinegar Pill

Flat-affect bush

Williamsblerg

…that’s all I’ve got.

You know, like oversharing, but from the audience’s perspective.

(Maybe it wasn’t necessary to spell that out.)

 

On the train:

-Man whispering gently into his iPhone

-Guy to his friend: She was claiming that she had paid the landlord and he was screwing her sister, or something.

 

On the street:

-Teenager talking to her friend: I always tell my mom that she thinks of me as the bad kid, but really I’m the GOOD kid because I tell her everything before it happens. Like when I wanted to have sex, I told her, so it wouldn’t ever be a surprise if I got pregnant.

(Ed: Sure, no surprises there!)

 

From my students:

-Student: Do you remember when I got a goldfish for my English project because I’m just that bougie?

(Ed: I did not remember.)

-Student: Whenever I see a kid at school with a hickey, I say, Uh, did you make out with a leech?
(Ed: Making friends and influencing people–it starts young)

-Student, asking for food: MOM! Can I have cheese and a sprite and some strawberries?…and also a water for Claire?

To me: Did you hear how I advocated for you?

-Student, reading out loud: He had a conversation with a veterinarian

Me: With a what?

Student: A veterin–oh, a veteran.

(Ed: This was on MEMORIAL DAY)

-Student, reading a grammar exercise online in which the goal was to pick the appropriate punctuation for the sentence: Although Scott had enjoyed the carefree bachelor life ( , ; ) he preferred marriage.

Student: (hysterical laughter)

Student, when she’s stopped laughing: WHAT is that emoji??

Me: (dies)

Me, after returning to life: That’s…that’s asking you whether you need a comma or a semicolon.

 

Getting from Chefchaouen to Marrakech involved multiple forms of transportation: bus from chaouen to Tangier, taxi from the Tangier bus station to the Tangier train station, overnight train from Tangier to Marrakech, and cab to the Marrakech medina before walking down the narrow streets to find the riad.

The only problem was that you can’t buy train tickets online without a Moroccan credit card, and because of how stressful the bus station in Fes was, we did not go to the train station. That was our first and last opportunity to buy a train ticket in person, since none of the cities in the mountains or desert gave us any opportunity to do so.

The other thing…was that the official website for Morocco’s rail system listed two different departure times for the Tangier-Marrakech train. I gave my phone to the French-speaking manager at the Chefchaouen guesthouse, but she confirmed that there were two different official pages, one listing a departure at 9:05 pm and the other stating 9:55 pm.

And the bus from Chefchaouen to Tangier was know to be a little unpredictable…and it left at 6 pm…and it was supposed to take 2.5-3 hours.

The bus got to Tangier at 9:10. The cab driver taking us from the bus station to train station said “Oh, I think the overnight train leaves at 9,” so when we arrived at the train station and found that not only did the train leave at 9:55 pm (it was 9:30 by that point), AND wasn’t sold out, but ALSO that there were sleeping car tickets left–greatest moment of travel alignment.

Then I took a 10-hour stress nap and woke up in Marrakech. Click through for photos and commentary:

Going from the desert to Fes was the only really long day of driving. It was about 7.5 hours, and Abdul dropped us off in Fes around 5 pm.

What can I say about Fes? Not much, unfortunately, except that I need to go back. My time in Fes was analogous to someone traveling to NYC but only visiting Times Square and the Port Authority. I was there for about 15 hours and my heart felt like a clenched fist the whole time. So…the pictures from Fes itself consist of: the inside of the (beautiful) guesthouse and shots taken while walking/running to the bus station.

Following that will be 1,000 pictures of Chefchaouen. It was like a sunset in that way. I knew I already had hundreds of blue pictures, but I just couldn’t resist taking one more. Click through for photos and commentary (and for no commentary on most of the Chefchaouen pictures, because I didn’t want to mar the blue…instead, just imagine this song playing on repeat):