Bitch better have my money
Y’all should know me well enough
Bitch better have my money
Please don’t call me on my bluff
Pay me what you owe me
Two hundred and seventy-six.
Two. Seven. Six.
That’s the number I was given when I pulled up to the CVS drive-thru – $276.00.
I knew it was going to be expensive. I was dreading the trip. I had put it off. I waited until the very last second, and to tell the truth, I only went by there because I was already out picking up some lunch. I even held my breath as the gentleman walked away from the window to grab my prescriptions. “Maybe he doesn’t know,” I hoped, “Maybe his computer doesn’t know that I don’t have insurance. Maybe he’ll give me my pills, charge me 20 bucks, and I can just get the hell outta here.” A pit started to form in my stomach.
“Umm, ma’am. Were you aware that these are going to be TWO HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-SIX DOLLARS… a piece?”
That’s five hundred and fifty-two.
Five. Five. Two.
I couldn’t hide it – the complete and utter disgust on my face. “No. Sir. No I was not aware. I wasn’t aware that I was going to be forking out a fucking mortgage payment for my 90-day supply of migraine and anti-anxiety/depression medication today. But thank you kindly for enlightening me.” I made up some bullshit about calling my new insurance company and drove off.
Sure, I had done my research. I took a long hard look at my three prescription bottles and decided which ones could go. I thought back to my last few visits with my doctor back in North Carolina. “Now, this new medication I’m switching you to, it’s not one you can just quit cold turkey. You have to be taken off of it gradually and by a physician. It affects different parts of the brain. If you don’t come off it slowly… your depression could get worse.” That was her warning. That was my doctor’s last piece of advice before I left – “Hey, don’t go all Queen of the World (- jazz hands -) on this shit and flush these bitches down the toilet. Why? ‘Cause you might just flip the fuck out and find yourself rocking back and forth in the corner of a public bathroom drooling down the front of your favorite Wu-Tang t-shirt. But uhh, anywho, send us a postcard or something when you get to Cali!”
So, I did the mature thing. I Google-d it. I prepared myself for what I was getting into. I expected a 400% price increase. Maybe even slightly more. But I was willing to pay. I was willing to pay $80.00 or even $100.00 per prescription because it made sense.
What didn’t make sense was for a person like me – a person who only goes in for preventative care – to sign up for health insurance just for cheaper medication until my new benefits ramped up in a few weeks. In my mind, it just did. not. make. sense. But then, I was made aware of the fact that my medication – just two of the three I take on a daily basis – would cost a combined $552.00.
That is a whopping $3.06666667 (yes, that is a repeating fraction of a cent) a pill, my friends.
Three dollars and six (.666667 repeating, might I add) cents.
Three. Oh. Six (repeating).
I say mind-boggling considering the drugs I speak of aren’t even hallucinogens. They aren’t psychedelics, or opiates, or even narcotics. I don’t pop these pills every day and see little leprechauns skipping by the way or even get the pleasure of a quick, uninterrupted, drug-induced nap, for fuck’s sake. I still have to drink copious amounts alcohol and sleep 16 hours a day if I even want to attempt to feign off a half decent migraine. Hell, poppy seeds would most likely show up in a drug test before these pansy-ass pills would.
Yet, here I am.
Here. I. Am. Drugless and up at midnight researching ObamaCare bullshit.
Which, by the way, his site has typos.
The leader of the free world had someone create a website announcing to the American people he was making us pay for health insurance – one way or another – and it has typos. Whatever. I get it. I’m officially all caught up on Scandal. He’s busy. I just expected better. Or more. Maybe one last proofread before all 318.9 million of us were directed to use said site…
Anywho, for shits and giggles I quoted myself some insurance. You know, just for the time being. I provided my information – often times including what my annual income for 2015 will be… which was alarming. Because my salary shouldn’t matter, should it? Especially if everyone is required to have insurance. I should be able to choose the kind of coverage I want according to the lifestyle I have, right? My insurance premiums should not be swayed one way or the other dependent upon how much money I make, should it? Because that would be… unfair, right? That part felt grimy but I carried on with my little experiment anyway. I made adjustments to the payment options (monthly/single up-front), the deductibles, and the “max out of pocket”-s. I educated myself. I looked up terms like, “outpatient prescription drugs.” Apparently, “outpatient prescription drugs” are any kind of drugs given to a patient outside of a hospital.
Because not one – not one. single. plan. offered to me – covered “outpatient prescription drugs.”
And do you know what sort of drugs my three tiny, non-habit forming, generic pills are?
You guessed it.
Outpatient prescription drugs.
That’s why it didn’t – it doesn’t – make sense. It doesn’t make sense for me to fork out anywhere from 150 to 450 extra dollars for a maybe insurance plan that I might need over the next six-ish weeks. One that would only help me with an ER visit, a suture, or a cast. One that really only covers any eligible charges by an anesthesiologist, surgeon, or radiologist. One that doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the only fucking need I have – outpatient prescription mother frackin’ drugs.
So, #thanksbutnothanks, little dude at the CVS drive-thru, but it looks as though I will not be retrieving those prescriptions after all. Because I will gladly take what’s left of my Topamax 100 mg. tablets and saw those bitches in half before I pay $276.00 for a refill. And come to think about it, I believe I have a whole bottle of Zoloft 100 mg. laying around here somewhere – a whole bottle I’ve already paid for. Supplementing with those for a few weeks should help mitigate the feeling of impending doom my doctor back home warned me about, shouldn’t it? Regardless, my apologies for the restocking inconvenience.
Oh, and with all due respect, Mr. President, sir. You can kindly keep your “temporary” coverage and ObamaCare typos. Because just what. the. fuck. do you think we – the people – are paying for if not for the “preventive or wellness doctor visits; dental or optical treatments; routine physical exams; normal pregnancy or childbirth; well child care; interscholastic and intercollegiate sports injuries; over-the-counter medications and outpatient prescription drugs; and expenses incurred outside the United States, its possessions or territories, or Canada?”
The glowing customer service?