I’m not a pill pusher or a pill pusher’s son, but I’ll be visiting pill pushers until my allotted days are done.
That poetic thought crossed my mind a couple of days ago when I was once again picking up a new prescription from our local drug store. As one passes the Biblical allotment of three score years and ten, by greater than ten, this happens a lot more often, week after relentless week, it so seems to me.
But on the other hand, it seems more like a social outing for me. I get to be greeted by a smile and “Good morning” at the front desk, then a good-natured “How are you this morning?” at the back pick-up counter, where I’m usually told it will take about 15 minutes.
It is not hard to pass the 15 necessary minutes when a comfortable chair is handy and especially so when someone interesting to chat with sits down beside you. Bypassing the usual self-introduction and conditions of the local weather, I find it interesting to find out the nitty-gritty of the what, the where, and why of the one who plunks his or her butt beside me.
The chatting usually stops abruptly when the head honcho of the drug department comes to the counter with your carefully counted and packaged pills and formally explains their purpose and possible side effects. That’s when my thoughts change to wondering if the cure, by chance, is not more dangerous than the cause that brought you there for a remedy.
Having a slight knee problem, the next morning I’m off to the hospital early, having an initial early appointment to meet a physiotherapist who, for some reason or other, I never asked, was late showing up. She was a very pleasant middle-aged person appearing a little flushed as she quickly gathered and handed to me a fistful of papers that she suggested I carefully read and check off where so indicated.
Not being totally fluent in medical terminology, I found it necessary to have several questions explained to me. She seemed well versed and chatted in a friendly manner while I checked each question off. She explained each one and stated that most of the questions she felt not necessary, but they needed them downstairs in the office to work me into their system. Needless to say, we ran out of time, but I was assured that half-hour weekly appointments would start the following week.
The following week, I showed up on time, waited patiently for greater than 15 minutes, but the therapist was a no-show. On checking with the office downstairs, they had not yet received the paperwork; I was not yet worked into their system. By this time, we had, once again, run completely out of time. I certainly was not enchanted.
On quickly pulling out of the parking lot, I am certainly sure that I saw the frustrated, flushed face of the physiotherapist just pulling in. As my volunteer driver was running short on scheduled time, I lacked the opportunity to glance at the physio’s license plate, but I am quite sure that had I been granted the opportunity to so do, it would have clearly read, in the customary, permanent-stamped metal imprint, “PMS24/7.”
Take care, ’cause we care.
barrie@barriehopkins.ca
519-986-4105