This week has been a hard week.
Two woe-is-me stories are below.
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Oh, they said. You're out of re-fills. No problem, I said. I already called my doctor's office, and they told me to call you.
Great, the pharmacy said. We'll have those ready for you tomorrow.
Tomorrow comes, and I walk into the pharmacy to get my medicine. Only...my medicine is nowhere in sight.
Did you get a text message saying your medications are ready?
No, I said. I talked to a real, live human being yesterday. She told me they would be ready.
You didn't get a text message?
No, I did not.
Well, if you don't get a text message that means your medications aren't ready.
...but I talked to a living, breathing person yesterday. I thought they would be ready because I was told my medications would be ready.
Your medications aren't ready unless we text you.
(I would like to bang my head against a wall at this point.)
Oh, they said again. The problem is that you have no refills.
Yes, I do, I said. There's one refill left on one of them, and I called to request a refill on the other yesterday.
But you have to call your doctor's office to do that.
I did. They told me to call you, which I did yesterday.
Oh? Well, how many pills do you have left?
None.
Oh? If you plan ahead better next time, we can mail them to you.
That would be fantastic, except you have never once mailed them to me when I've asked you to.
Oh?
I told them to forget about it, and that I'd fill my prescriptions elsewhere. (I was nice about it and did not yell, scream or cuss. I just gave up and walked away.)
(Giving up and walking away is a theme with health care providers in my life.)
Three minutes later, a message comes over the store's intercom: "Monica Springer to the pharmacy, please."
I turned and looked at my mom. I said something like, "I'm not even sure I want to go back there."
I got a three-month supply of one of my medications in the mail today. Where the three-month supply of my other medication is, I'm not totally sure.
I don't have it in me to fight with them today.
My life would be a lot easier if health care providers did what I asked them to do.
I don't think it's hard.
They do.
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Speaking of health care Gods hating me, I requested a copy of my records from my former medical office earlier this year. The exchange that followed took more than a month and requests on my part in person, over the phone, through email and through a snail-mail letter.
(Dudes, I used to be a journalist. If I want records, I'm going to get them.)
I finally got my records when I pointed out, through email/a letter so there would be a paper trail, that hey, it turns out that you are legally required to give me this information.
Those silly laws.
Long story short, that's a HIPAA violation if I ever saw one. I requested my records more than a month before I had an appointment with a new doctor. I received them two business days before my appointment with a new doctor.
I guess I have to give the old office a little bit of credit. I never thought I'd see my records. Ever. I gave up on ever getting them, and I was mentally preparing to tell my new doctor about my past medical history. Which, on this subject, is really, really long and really, really stupid and complicated.
But I did finally get them. When the new doctor read my records, he told me a few things from them that I didn't know. As in, good news. It was a good day in Monicaland that day. I was proud of myself for not giving up.
Anyway, I made a HIPAA complaint. I think laws should be followed. I think people should have access to their medical records. When laws aren't followed, I think there should be consequences.
I got a letter in the mail today. It could be a violation, the letter said, but we're not going to do anything about it.
It took them four or five pages to say that, but they could have summed it up in the above two sentences.
I honestly wasn't expecting anything to happen, but part of me was hoping that someone would stick up for me in the health care world.
That is not the case today. Who knows what surprises tomorrow brings.
You win some and you lose some. Some losses are harder to take than others.
This particular loss stings.
Those records describe what's going on with my body, and what I have to do and don't have to do to fix it.
And for more than a month, I didn't have those records. I had no idea what needed to be done and what didn't need to be done. What person on God's green earth could possibly deny that information to me?
It bothers me. It bothers me a lot.
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I need a drink.
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