The pharmacy then and now
It wasn’t that long ago when I knew my local druggist at an independent pharmacy in Lodi. His name was John Hunnell. He knew me, along with my specific needs, and I knew him.
But times have changed. Now I go to the big box. There’s a druggist who stands above everyone else behind a glass partition.
Sometimes it’s a young woman who fills in on Mondays and Thursdays, but not on Tuesdays. On this day, it’s the guy who wishes he had saved his tuition money and invested in Bitcoin.
I don’t know why he’s up there away from the customers. Maybe it’s the courtroom idea of putting a judge above everyone else — creating an atmosphere of superiority and authority.
Or maybe he just doesn’t want to be in the germ zone with all the coughing and sneezing among patients.
The big box pharmacist doesn’t know me from Adam, and I don’t know him from the man in the moon. Can’t say that that lady up there would recognize me either.
Back then, I would give John Hunnell my handwritten prescription. He would tell me about the medication, as he moved pills from a big bottle to a little one. We also talked about our families and what we had planned for the weekend.
I do have prescription insurance, but it’s not like the old days. I had full coverage for drugs. Now, I pay big bucks for the insurance and still shell out large co-pays.
They will cover generics, but not the latest new and improved pharmaceuticals — nor most brand names. Even with these restrictions, there is still a co-pay that’s comparable the cost of a dinner at
Ruth’s Chris Steak House.
The insurance company occasionally sends me letters stating they will reduce my copays if I order prescriptions by mail through some outfit I never heard of. I also get robo calls that request the same thing, but talk about impersonal service. There’s just something creepy about the mailman or UPS person bringing me a prostateshrinking medication and hiding it behind a porch plant.
At the big box, I usually get in line, six feet apart with several others, and wait for my turn at the counter. We’re all bored with better things to do. On this day, there’s an older lady at the front asking a number of questions which the clerk can’t answer.
Just when I think she’s done, she starts the same questions all over again — never looking at the line of angry people behind her. (If murder were legal, I’d be a hero here.)
People see my veterans’ hat and start asking questions. Others play on their phones. Two girls in front of me are speaking Spanish thinking I don’t understand. One tells the other she shouldn’t date some guy called “Craz.” Finally, it’s my turn.
The clerk asks the usual identification questions such as name, address and date of birth. (She doesn’t know me from Adam either.) She goes to the back and returns with a plastic bag containing an amber container of pills, a side effect sheet, and an extra cap.
“That will be a $46 co-pay,” she says. (Later, I’ll get a statement from the insurance company. They paid $3.80.)
But the best part is when I get my little package home and discover that I forgot to tell the pharmacy clerk not to use the childproof cap. Apparently, it’s another rule in California that doesn’t make sense. Everybody gets the childproof cap unless you request otherwise. A flip top is included in the bag. But if you have arthritis and neglected to tell them, how do you get the childproof cap off and replace it?
Fortunately, it’s not an issue for me. I just grab the Vice-Grip and tada! Problem solved. A crack created in the amber container is repaired quickly with a strip of Gorilla tape.
Can’t wait until the next time I need a prescription filled. I get to go through the same ritual all over again.
They say we’re making progress with medical services. But somehow, I don’t see how the present is better than the Medical Arts Pharmacy that John Hunnell used to run.
Yet I shouldn’t complain. Things could be much worse. We could be like the island paradise of Cuba where most pharmaceuticals can’t be found. The only way to get needed drugs is to have your Aunt Blanca in Florida send them.
But who knows? the way the national debt is growing, maybe the Cuban plan for us is just around the corner. Hope you have a relative living outside the country — just in case.