A year or two ago, I was lured into using CVS pharmacy’s rapid refill program. With rapid refill, it was explained, I could request a medication refill by speaking with the automated entity who mans their phones. Ordinarily I get peevish about talking to machines, but the entity–let’s call him Lou–took calls around the clock. Better, I realized it would let me bypass the music I’d heard year in and year out, every time the pharmacist put me on hold. The tune had lodged itself in my psyche, replaying itself ceaselessly whenever I got tired or bored. My most fervent prayer had been answered. Or so I thought.
Rapid refill is effective in getting my prescriptions filled. The down side is, it’s always the wrong prescription. Too often I wait on a long line of ulcer ridden, flu-carrying, gallbladder challenged customers, only to be given my Concerta (my attention span has serious deficits) for a yeast infection. Clearly, Lou and I have communication problems. And I can’t figure out how to fix them.
In recent months Lou has stepped up his game. He’s started to place anticipatory calls, inquiring whether I need this or that prescription filled. I rarely do. If I did, I’d have called it in. If I don’t pick up the phone, he takes a breather, then perseveres. I applaud Lou’s conscientiousness, but am wearying of his constant presence in my life. I’m tired of groping for my phone while checking out at the store, running to catch a call when I’m getting out of the shower, and being woken on a Sunday morning, just to see CVS on my caller ID. I feel like a hunted animal. And the pharmacists say they can’t do anything about it. To make the calls stop, I have to contact CVS’s corporate offices.
I resent being the one who has to take action just to get some normalcy back in my life. Plus, once corporate has my number, who says they won’t stalk me directly? If they do, I’ll have little recourse. I could take it up with the FDA, but the aggravation wouldn’t be worth it. I’ve heard that their on-hold music is even worse than CVS’s.