FLYING: Confessions of a Free Woman

Yesterday, I went to the doctor’s office again to talk about my headaches again, but this is not a story about that. This is a story about what happened afterward.

Armed with a handful of prescriptions that would all supposedly do their parts to ameliorate pain that has plagued my life for three years, I went to my local Target, where they have been filling my prescriptions since they opened, where everyone knows my name, and where, frequently, as I come in for something “heavy duty” for the pain, someone will sympathetically say across the counter, “those headaches are bad again, huh?”

Yesterday, a few people milled about. I had dropped off my scripts, and wandered through the mall, incredulous that just a few days after Christmas, people still felt the need to buy themselves something. It’s funny how we can build up in our minds that Christmas, like our birthdays, or like losing 10 pounds, or like getting a new job, or like the “geographic cure, i.e., moving across the country” will solve the basic problem that lies at the heart of ourselves. Our inability to make peace with who we are, what we are. To simply be. And, so, as I walked through the mall, I was feeling attuned to a lot of frantic misery as people shopped feverishly, and a lot of overtired toddlers voiced their complaints in the only ways they know how–whining, crying, tantrums–while their parents screamed at them that they were being naughty.

I retreated back into Target. I figured it was better to sit and wait for my prescriptions rather than to observe the bile of human misery.

My prescriptions were almost ready, they assured me. The woman ahead of me–an older woman, who looked harried, and worried, and whose hands flew this way and that–as if this were her reaction to life that had not treated her all that well, was asked if she could be helped. “We have to wait until my daughter comes out of the restroom,” she said.

A few moments later, the daughter emerged. Despite the heat in the store, she was wrapped up in her coat. It didn’t look as if she had showered in a few days. The first thing I noticed, though, was that she had her hand protectively placed over her lower belly. “Bladder infection,” I thought to myself. “Damn, those hurt.”

The mother began waving as soon as her daughter approached. “She’s here!”

The pharmacy rep stepped forward. “How much are these drugs going to cost,” the young woman asked through gritted teeth.”

“The first is $14.97 and the second is $74.55.”

“Could you ask the pharmacist which one I really need to take?”

The young woman came back in a minute. The conversation took place in hushed tones, but there’s not a lot of privacy in the crowded area near the pharmacy stand. “She said this one will take care of the infection, and the other one will help with all the nausea and vomiting.”

Take them both, I was thinking. Even if you have to give something else up, you can’t get better without them. I’ve had friends whose bladder infections have turned into kidney infections and then you’re in the hospital. It’s nothing to mess around with.

The daughter was clearly angry. Her mother did nothing, just fluttered her hands around. It was clear that neither of them had the money to pay for either.

I started thinking about my checking account. I got paid last week, but it’s the first of the month coming up, and I’ve got rent, and a whole series of bills that are on automatic repayment. If I paid for her pills, I’d bounce something. I wanted to step forward, save the day, pay for her pills. She looked awful.

“I’m not going to take either of them,” she said, in a disgusted voice. Clearly she was mad at the pharmacist. Oh honey. It’s not the pharmacist’s fault. It’s the fucked up system we live in. The people who run this country don’t give a shit that you’re suffering. But this was not the time for political speeches.

I watched her and her mother walk down the aisle, the younger woman limping in pain. I had no idea how she was going to make it through the night.

I do have insurance. I stepped forward, to pick up my four new drugs. “That’ll be $16.27″ the clerk said. “Really? That’s all?”

I felt guilty, and mad, and thought, once again, about how fucking obscene this system is.

I wonder if that woman is in the hospital yet?

This entry was posted on Thursday, January 7th, 2010 at 9:03 am and is filed under Lorraine, Politics, Womanhood, Health and Wellness. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.