CVS: Where Everybody Knows My Name

Although the line at CVS pharmacy is situated in order to protect patient confidentiality, there is still a degree of exposure for those picking up their medications.

As I stood waiting yesterday, I had nothing else to do but indulge in my idle curiosity. I checked out the guy in front of me, who I determined to be a "newbie." He seemed awkward and confused by the process and wanted additional information on his prescription. I think he was taking something like antibiotics. He had to be instructed to sign the yellow page in the binder with the medication's name, to verify that he received it.

Oh, how I envied this man!

After all, in the course of treatment of bipolar disorder, I, like all those in my shoes, have taken thousands of pills. In order to accomplish this feat, I have made hundreds of trips to the pharmacy. As my meds are not synchronized to be filled at the same time, I have to go in three or four times a month to keep myself stocked.

As a result, the staff at my pharmacy, CVS, know me by name. As I approached the counter, D., my favorite gal at CVS, immediately started rummaging through the medication area to pull out my meds. There was a medication omitted (another story), but she rectified the problem in less than five minutes. Then we did the beep of the bar codes, the swish of the card, the whoosh of the signatures, the click of the stapler, and the quicky review of the receipt. Debbie smiled, and I was out of there.

So if my transaction was so effortless and pleasant, why do I dread it so much?

It is because when I pick up prescriptions for psych meds, there is nowhere to hide. My disability is obvious.

If there is one place I shouldn't mind my disability being obvious, it should be at the pharmacy. Moreover, I know that I should be grateful that the medications work for me, after so much trial and error, and I know intellectually that without them, I would have no life to speak of. I am one of the lucky ones, and lucky a million times over.

But there is still ambivalence whenever I go to CVS, and I think it has to do with my resentment of the illness. Even at this late stage in the game, there is something inside me that wishes that it weren't true, that I wouldn't be the girl standing in line for mood stabilizers, that I could be that guy waiting for some penicillin instead.

I don't think these feelings are juvenile or immature. I think it's just one more reminder that acceptance is a daily struggle, but there are people in life, even the ones at the pharmacy, that do their level best to help me through with just a little bit more dignity.

After all, they know me by first and last name.