Column

A yuppie meets an older guy at CVS

By HOWARD TROXLER
Published March 20, 2007

For my convenience, I am not supposed to buy drugs at the drugstore anymore.

Groceries, yes. Prescriptions, no.

For my convenience, prescriptions now come via the mail, arriving in bulk inside thick plastic envelopes.

If I do fill a new prescription at the store, a few days later a letter arrives from the Drug-In-The-Mail-Co. The tone is friendly but the message is clear:

"Do not think you have fooled us with your sassy drugstore purchase. We are wise to you. If you do it again, you will have to pay One Bazillion Dollars."

But they say it saves money, so I don't mind, really. When my last two drugstore prescriptions were almost empty, I tried to switch them to the D-I-T-M-Co.

You can't have them, the company replied.

I asked: How come?

Your doctor won't authorize it, the company said.

I called the doctor's office. We already authorized it, the doctor's office said. Here, we'll even authorize it again.

Your doctor won't authorize it, the company still insisted. No pills for you.

For some reason, out of the blue, the company then sent one of the pills anyway, but not the other. I got a computer phone call saying I still couldn't have the other one.

I figured, what the heck, and went to the local CVS to get a refill in person.

But when I went to the counter to pick it up, the young, white-coated pharmacist looked at me (it seemed) with disapproval.

"You'll have to talk to this other gentleman," she said, pointing and backing away.

The insurance company denied your prescription, the Other Gentleman said. He said it was because the insurance company said it had just filled it. He was sympathetic and made more calls.

I tried to argue with what I considered to be foolproof grounds - it wasn't true. But as I flubbed my way through my story, the Other Gentleman started going, "Sir, sir," in a tone that I recognized at once, and it stopped me cold.

Good grief! I was the Old Guy Who Didn't Understand. I was the guy who had to be interrupted with, "Sir, sir."

I know that guy. I have been behind him in line many times. I have always felt a little sorry for him, but also a little grumpy at being delayed.

Lots of my friends know him, too, or her. Lots of my friends in their 40s and 50s have had to Take Care of Things for a confused parent or older relative.

We have been sooo smart about it, too, and traded vaguely patronizing stories about how it's a good thing they have smart yuppie children like us to help them.

And deep down, we have said to ourselves, we will never be like that, no, sir, not us. When it is our turn, we will take care of ourselves.

"Have a seat over there, sir," the pharmacist said, while he tried to arrange a 14-day supply.

"Over there" was by that free blood-pressure machine. I did not want to sit.

I paced around the counter, eyeing the shelves: portable urinals, raised toilet seats, bedpans. There was a display, too, of pill-storage devices: pillboxes marked with the days of the week; decorative pill holders worn around the neck like jewelry.

"Sir, your prescription is ready," a voice called. Gratefully, I paid my co-pay, grasped the crinkly white bag and plodded out the automatic glass doors, squinting at the bright Florida sunlight.

[Last modified March 20, 2007, 01:19:27]