As I mentioned in this post, I ran out of Phyllocontin on Good Friday.
By then in pretty dire straits, I faxed a repeat prescription request at 01.30 on Tuesday morning, explaining the situation and asking for an URGENT scrip. I didn’t get it.
I phoned the pharmacy this morning (Wednesday), to ask about my missing scrip – discovering that I didn’t have enough breath to talk, and had to waste more of it saying, repeatedly, “No, it’s not the line, I can’t damn well breathe!” Anyway, the upshot was that the pharmacist hadn’t seen anything for me, so I explained the situation and he said he’d keep an eye open for it and if he got it, he’d make sure I got it. I must have made an impression, as he’s usually an awkward sod.
Then I phoned the surgery, said, politely, please pay attention, because I can’t breathe so I can’t speak up, explained the situation the best I could and asked if my scrip had been processed yet:-
“Don’t know, there’s a lot here from yesterday that haven’t been touched yet .”
“Really? So putting URGENT on the top in large letters means nothing?” (Bearing in mind that I faxed mine, so it would have been printed on an A4 sheet, and among all the postcard-sized official repeat forms it would have stood out like a circus clown at a funeral.)
I was so bloody furious I couldn’t speak at all, so I just hung up and faxed my GP an angry letter saying, after explaining what the problem was:-
Speaking to reception, trying to find out what was happening, I was told that my request was somewhere in a mass of repeat requests from yesterday that hadn’t yet been processed. It was also made quite clear that the fact that it was prominently marked URGENT (and explains why), counts for nothing.
I realise it’s my fault for running out, but (and I know it’s a busy time and you’re in a state of flux right now), such a dismissive, utterly unhelpful, attitude really isn’t acceptable. (end)
And asked him to do something about it.
Got my meds about 3.30 this afternoon.
So some numpty in reception probably hates me, but I don’t care – she should do her bloody job. For all she knew I could have been a diabetic in urgent need of insulin, or had epilepsy and in desperate need of my drugs, or had any of a raft of conditions that are potentially dangerous or even fatal left untreated – like mine** – she didn’t ask, because she just didn’t care.
**Not being able to breathe properly lowers my oxygen levels and puts even more strain on my already badly damaged heart as it works harder to pump more blood, to compensate. It’s been clattering away like a knackered bilge pump for days.
So, on the one hand, chalk up another win to me. But on the other, and far more serious, hand, I’m getting awfully fucking sick of fighting for what should be mine as a right. I’m too ill for this shit.
Anybody can run out of meds – I’ve got 16 to keep track of ffs, and much of the time I have trouble keeping track of what bloody day it is, due in no small part to the toxic effects of this chemical soup – there should be a system in place for processing urgent requests, like mine, and there clearly isn’t.
Or, perhaps, there is, and this useless goddamned bimbo, this utter waste of perfectly good blood and organs, simply couldn’t be arsed, and in a medical environment, anyone with that attitude needs to be shown the door with the minimum of delay – they’re dangerous.
And a practice that allows unqualified reception staff to make what are effectively medical decisions has some pretty damn serious problems to address.