There are times when your phone rings repeatedly over a prescription for fish oil ,(that you actually bothered a doctor for), only to be told it was denied, that become a major problem you spend your afternoon fixing. Times when you're buried in trying to fill a dozen variations of the same psych meds and laxatives for a twenty something that was just kicked out of a rehab center two days ago and is waiting on you to magically pull refills out of your ass from an unresponsive doctor so they can calmly pass fecal matter out of their own. And other times when a patient with severe mental issues is holed up in a hotel room, wrapped up in just a bed sheet, waiting for a delivery of pills strong enough to kill a horse, that you start to question how the hell you got here. What's even more ironic are the names of these facilities that need my service -- Home at Last, New Life, and Clear Path. If only they were the endpoint sanctuaries they claim to be but they're not. They're just houses run by a mediocre staff that may or may not have graduated from high school and I'm just one person running a department by myself with a flimsy license who may or may not be able to muster up enough stamina to make it through a never ending to do list while running to the bank on my lunch break to pay my rent on time. I'd rather live like Beyonce.
https://www.youtube.com/embed/Dk1zg7MdUQY"
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