Ok, so I was already at the pharmacy, and by 'funny' I mean, "I'm going to jump across this counter and punch you in the weiner".
Jordan and I had to pick up cat food today, because we are almost out and we have, like, a million freaking cats. Even though the ungrateful little f-ers just eat it, and then go puke it up or crap it out on the carpet. But I digress... His psychiatrist is getting weekly calls from me, to let her know that his current 'new' medication STILL isn't working. Which means a 'new' weekly prescription. Which means almost weekly trips to the pharmacy. In the past, more times than I can count, his prescription has been denied because its too soon to fill it. Yes its a different dose, but apparently that doesn't matter to either of his insurance companies. Now, we've had a couple nice pharmacists who have been able to override the system, and we've gotten them filled. This past week, however, I've been piecing past dosages together to get him the right amount. Yeah, that doesn't sound safe. Anyway, I thought that today was going to be a good day. Mostly because when we stopped to get gas, the pump clicked off at $29.00 even. People like me with crazy OCD like even numbers. I thought, 'this has to be a sign'...um, maybe not.
So, Jordan and I strolled into Walmart with a bounce in our steps. Ok, not really...that was just Jordan's tics raging out of control and me trying to keep up with him. I stopped at the pharmacy (again) to see if his new script was ready. Enter Douche Bag Pharmacist. I realize that I'm at the pharmacy a lot. In a perfect world, I wouldn't be. But, we are still trying to find a medication and/or dosage that helps control his mood swings, his extreme rages, and will stop him from beating the hell out of himself. And, I'm trying to keep him at home during this transition, rather than having him locked up in a psych ward. So, Mr. Pharmacist, when I come in every week looking for a prescription for my kid who is clearly miserable, maybe you could stop treating me like a scheming crack whore. It's not like I'm bringing the f-ing prescriptions in, written in crayon on the back of a McDonald's bag. They are being faxed in by a doctor. I guess I piece shit together again this week. And when we run out of pills, I'm going to take Jordan to the pharmacist, and let him act like a lunatic. Let him beat himself in the head until his nose bleeds. Let him punch their walls and pound on their counter. Let him tic so severely that his entire body shakes violently. Let him scream and cry. Hopefully the same pharmacist will be there. Maybe he'll learn a bit of compassion. If not, I'm going to kick him in the crotch so hard, he'll be trying out for the Vienna Boys Choir.
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