A Story

I didn't mention it earlier, but I took Sophie last week to another appointment with The New Neurologist. This neurologist sees adults and her specialty is women and epilepsy. We landed up spending at least an hour and a half with this doctor which could either be a reflection of the fact that she is awesome or that adult neurologists have more time to spend with their patients than pediatric neurologists. In any case, she affirmed/confirmed my feelings that Sophie's seizures, right now, are often the manifestation of stress caused by hormones -- the terrible ups and downs that all young women face as their bodies navigate puberty. I've been talking about this for what seems like years and I haven't had much response until now (and that's another post entirely -- the unique differences of women and disease and the often terrifying lack of studies regarding those differences). At one point, our pediatrician was willing to put Sophie on birth control, and I filled a prescription but put it into the medicine cabinet, chicken to put another chemical substance into her body (and we were actually trying the new drug Banzel at that time, anyway).

Did you know that the treatment of seizures with drugs is often no better than a crap shoot?

We're definitely losers in that area.

Anyway, back to the New Neurologist. She prescribed a certain type of birth control and wrote the prescription, of course, as a hormonal treatment for seizures. She indicated that Sophie would need a continuous supply. We wrapped our long conversation up and I left feeling heartened, feeling that new eyes and a new brain with a fresh look might help Sophie.

I dropped the prescription off at Rite-Aid in my neighborhood, a drugstore that I must say I have to be vigilant about because they make mistakes all the time. They don't make life-threatening ones, at least not yet, but on more than one occasion they've messed up our prescription and I've had to call them on it. But I digress. Two days later, I went back to pick up the birth control.

That was yesterday, Sophie's birthday, and who doesn't want to fill and pick up a prescription for birth control on one's daughter's fifteenth birthday? 

In lieu of belaboring my encounter with the pharmacist, though, I think I'll just make this a play, a two-act play of absurd proportions.

ACT I

The Lady (me): Hi. I'm here to pick up my daughter's prescription. The Lady gives the name of her daughter and the woman behind the counter turns around and begins riffling through the plastic bags hanging on a closet-like rack. She finds the prescription, looks at it and motions to me to walk down the counter to a semi-private cubicle.


The Pharmacist (in a whisper-like word): Your insurance doesn't cover birth control.

The Lady (her heart begins to pound because she suffers from insurance PTSD): Um. As you can see on the prescription this isn't being filled as birth control but as a treatment for my daughter's seizures.

The Pharmacist: I'm sorry but you'll have to speak with your insurance company. If you want to take this as is it will cost you $75.

The Lady: What? $75? For a three-week supply? The neurologist said that she needs a three-month continuous supply. Despite her status of being an insurance snafu/fuck-up veteran, tears are pricking her eyes. She can't believe that this is what she's doing on her daughter's fifteenth birthday. 


Chorus: THE IRONY! THE IRONY!


The Lady walks out of the pharmacy shaking, not because it's such a big deal, actually, but because she's been dealing with this sort of crap for way too long and she's feeling really, really sorry for herself. She had intended to go run pleasurable errands but instead drove home to call said insurance company.


Act II

The Lady sits at her kitchen table with the phone standing next to her on speaker. She is on hold and the tinny sounds of "Mandy" come out of the speaker.


Oh, Mandy, you came and you gave without taking.
I need you toda....


Voice: Hello. How can I help you today.

The Lady: I need you to tell me why the prescription the doctor ordered for my daughter is not being covered. The next couple of minutes are taken up by the sound of a computer, clicking. The Lady answers all the questions asked with a rising sense of hysteria. She is especially stuck on the fact that it's her daughter's birthday and when she is asked by The Voice what the patient's birthdate is, The Voice doesn't wish her happy birthday.


Chorus: THE IRONY! THE IRONY!





Voice: Well, it says here in your policy that birth control is not covered.

The Lady: The doctor specifically prescribed this as a hormone treatment for seizures. That's why the prescription is written for a continuous supply.

Voice: I understand your frustration but the policy doesn't cover birth control. You'll have to get your doctor to contact us with a letter of medical necessity. May I place you on hold?

The sounds of "Mandy" continue to trickle out, but the Lady is sitting in her suburban kitchen and something appears to have snapped within her. She is staring at the small Buddha statue that sits in front of the Once in a Blue Moon picture frame on the kitchen windowsill. She is considering standing on top of the kitchen island and smashing the telephone into bits. She thinks, too, of organizing some sort of posse. She has thought about it before but the Chorus is drowning her out.


Chorus: THE IRONY! THE IRONY!


If you've stayed with me through this long and boring two-act absurdist, post-modern comedic tragedy, you might consider joining my posse. Leave me a comment. And if this blog is being monitored through Homeland Security, no worries (the irony, the irony). Honestly.