My last doctor was a schmuck. He never bothered to remind me about my yearly appointments and required me to come in every single-freaking-year for one damn prescription. I’m on something powerful or even addictive. Hell, in most senses it would be considered designer.
The last straw was when his little hench-woman of an assistant informed me there’d be a $15 charge for an extension to my current script. For what? I asked. Her response was that the work required to extend the script was nearly the same as having me come in. I call BS. Just because his BMW isn’t brand new isn’t a reason for me to get shafted on a script. I have the cash – it’s the principle of thing.
I’ve worked in pharmacy ops. Unless it’s a controlled substance like Oxycodone – most doctors mindlessly write a new script because they do almost no work to clear the script. The Feds care if it can be abused (which mine can’t) or can be baked into Meth (which can be done with Sudafed.)
Every farking year the conversation with the
schmuck doctor goes like this:
Doctor, Q: So, you’re still taking script X?
Q: have you had any problems?
Me: No, as you can see, it seems to be working
Q: Oh, yes, okay – we’ll renew it.
A full workup for that damn conversation? The irony is that the side effects are positive for a man in his 30s and it’s even better when I get to my 40s. And, in case folks are trying to figure out the drug, the positive benefits are for me – internally – not anyone else.
I swore last year that I wasn’t going back if he pulled this stuff, and I have kept to my word. It may cost me more money and time but that money and time won’t be for him. Someone else can pay for his new BMW, handheld computers and IT systems that can’t even send me a reminder email.
It’s time to find someone who has a better approach to this thing. Until I’m forty – once every two years will do nicely. Thank you very much.