When You're Chronically Ill And Need Meds, There Can Be Obstacles

PORTLAND, OR – Friday was not a great day. There’ve been worse. It’s not like I had to go to dialysis or something. For that, I am forever grateful.

But it was not a great day made worse because it didn’t have to be that way.

As to why it was, that’s a question for both Aetna/CVS and the United States Postal Service.

Based on today, I’m not expecting an answer any time soon.

I’m not sharing this because I want sympathy, pity, or anything like that. I’m doing it because I really do believe that there has to be a better way for people with chronic diseases to go through life.

There’s a lot of talk about the price of medication and it’s all well deserved. I have insurance through work. I have insurance through my better 83 percent’s workplace. And I’m on Medicare. Yet, what I pay for my regular refills of fairly run-of-the-mill meds and supplies (insulin, sharps, test strips, clopidogrel) is absurd.

[ COMMENTARY ]

At the same time, there’s a pervasive lack of empathy among people who deal with patients. I’m not talking about all doctors, nurses, people in their offices and not everyone in the insurance industry. I am, though, talking about a lot of them.

I understand what it's like to work in an industry where, for you to be at your best, bad things often must happen to good people.

It doesn't mean I don't try to be nice and understanding to the people I deal with.

I'm sure that I'm not the only one who finds themselves wondering on occasion.

Doctors who wait days to return seemingly important messages. Receptionists who seem to forget the person on the other end of the phone is only calling the doctor because of a serious issue.

By and large, people don’t call the doctor for fun or just to chat.

They certainly don’t call the mail-order pharmacy of their insurance company because they’re looking to kill some time.

As I said, I’m a kidney-transplant recipient, something for which I am forever happy. I’ve never been to prison, but I’m fairly sure dialysis three times a week for six-plus hours each time is pretty close (admittedly, it did keep alive and there’s a lot to be said for that).

While I am very happy to have my new kidney (it will be two years in July), I will always live with the risk of losing it. To prevent that, I have a daily medication regimen to follow.

Forever.

So, getting my medication on time is really important.

On May 30, I ordered refills. On June 1, the medications were mailed.

The following Tuesday, I called to check in and make sure they had been mailed. Someone in customer service told me they had been mailed and they should be in my hands no later than Wednesday.

On Thursday, still having not received my meds, I called Aetna back.

“We mailed it on Saturday and once it leaves our place it’s no longer our concern,” a very unhelpful person told me. “It’s between you and the carrier.”

I still regret having hung up without getting that person’s name.

The next morning, I called my local post office and spoke with a man named Garrett who, truly, was very helpful. He was able to figure out my meds were in Illinois. He couldn’t figure out why but promised to track down answers.

On Monday, he called back. Garrett let me know that when my meds were mailed, the pharmacy placed them in the wrong bin, sending them on a journey around Illinois.

He tried stopping the meds from being placed on a truck so they could be express mailed to me.

To no avail.

By Friday, having received nothing in the mail, I called my local post office and got a woman named Annette. She was the anti-Garrett. It took a little time to reach that conclusion.

After I explained my situation, she looked on her computer said, geez, your meds had really been run all over the place. Three stops in Illinois alone.

“That should have never happened,” she said.

She promised to call me back.

After four hours of waiting, I called back.

She’s on the phone, I was told. She’ll call you right back.

Ninety minutes later I called again. This time, she answered.

“Good news,” she told me. “They’re in Oregon. Somehow they got shipped to Lebanon but we should get them to you sometime tomorrow.

“Maybe Monday.”

Understand that the post office in Lebanon, Oregon, is 86 miles from my home, about a 90-minute drive.

Given her guess that it might be next week, I asked her if she meant the country of Lebanon.

“Annette,” I said, trying to remain calm. “You just told that while it wasn’t originally the post office’s fault, things happened that shouldn’t have, that the post office made mistakes that shouldn’t have been made.

“Isn’t there a way that you can get them to me today, or at least guarantee by tomorrow?”

I explained the situation again. I pointed out that I wasn’t asking for special delivery of holiday cards or the new issue of The New Yorker. I was asking for medications that I need to keep my kidney healthy, that she had said the post office had messed up.

I just wanted my medication.

“So, Mr. Miner. You would want us to stop all postal operations in the Portland area so that we can make a special delivery of your special package?”

I thanked her for her time and hung up.

There has to be a better way.

Colin Miner is a Patch's editor of news and content partnerships living, thanks to his new kidney and medication to keep it healthy, in Portland, Oregon.