“I can't believe I'm having so much trouble refilling my nerve pills at my local pharmacy," I say to Gennie, my friend.
"Why?" she asks.
"They won't fill my prescription unless they have all my medications—some regulation."
"What are you going to do?"
"I don't know. I mostly use the mail-order pharmacy because there are no co-pays."
"And that's a problem?"
"You bet it is. I'm on social security. Can't afford co-pays."
"Have the mail order pharmacist request a transfer of the pills to them."
"I did. But you know what gets my goat. The local pharmacy has been filling this same medication for years."
The mail-order requests the transfer—no response from the local pharmacy. I contact my doctor.
My doctor's office calls the local pharmacy.
The pharmacy agrees to fill the medication— once.
The next day I walk into the drugstore. "I'm here to pick up my pills."
"Sorry. We don't have the prescription," the lady at the counter says.
"But my doctor said you would fill it."
"Nobody contacted us."
Throwing my hands in the air. "This is nuts!" I call my doctor's office again— for the third time.
"Forget the local pharmacy. I'm sending a new prescription to your mail-order pharmacy," the physician's assistant tells me.
My computer beeps. It's the mail-order pharmacy. The prescription is processed.
About the author
Phyllis Souza lives in Northern California and is retired from a long real estate career. She's taken several on-line writing classes. Her stories have been published in Café Lit, The Raven Perch, SpillWords, Scarlet Leaf Review and Friday Flash Fiction, The Drabble.
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