Thumper Thinks Out Loud

I didn’t mind the fact that the base pharmacy didn’t have my prescription ready today. I more or less expected that, having experienced holiday slowdowns and screw-ups galore over the years dealing with military medicine. What I did mind was that I checked in, was told it would be ready in 15 minutes, waited an hour, and when the tech called me to the window what he had was not the scrip I was supposed to get. It was the scrip I had picked up at the ER last week (um...yeah...I had a nice late night trip to the ER on the 20th—12:30 to 4 a.m.—thanks to a wayward gall bladder) and not the scrip the Spouse Thingy had called to arrange last week.

Chances are my doc never got the message so he never put the order in; for all I know he wasn’t even working the last couple of weeks. But it would have been nice if, when I checked in, the other tech had noticed that the scrip he clicked on was one already picked up. Then he could have said “I'm sorry, but you don’t have one listed here” and I would have realized the doc had not ordered it, and we could have moved on. And I wouldn’t have been the least bit upset, since I went in there figuring it was a wasted trip…but we had to go out to the base anyway, so why not check?

But that wait… Phffft. I wasn’t the only one who sat there and waited amongst the throng of coughing people and crying babies. An elderly couple had been there longer the we had, and when their number came up the pharmacy suddenly had no record of their scrip, which meant they had to go back to the clinic to get their doc to re-enter it. I thought that old lady was going to reach over the counter and beat the kid with her cane.

I was kind of hoping she would. Not that the kid behind the counter deserved it--he was just reading the info on the computer screen--but just once it would be kind of funny to see a really old person go postal. Only kind of. In a really warped sort of way. Yeah, I’m not nice. But part of me wanted to see her heave that cane around and for the beating to commence.

Going to hell, I know I am.

So I get to go back next week and try again. I may take my laptop and write a new novel while I wait. Or just take my iPod and dance in the chair, which for me would look like spastic twitching and jerking. I can close my eyes and sing along, thereby assuring that no one will sit next to me.

Something to look forward to.