I use the automated phone service of my pharmacist to renew my Xanax. Every 20 or 30 days, I call them up and get a refill without ever having to speak with a human; I don’t even have to see the doctor.
All that changed a few days ago.
A few hours after ordering more Xanax from the CVS robot, I got a call from the pharmacist. Apparently the doctor finally looked at my charts and realized I hadn’t been in there since 2012.
“You’ll have to see the doctor in order to get a refill,” she explained.
I was pretty desperate because I pushed back a car inspection appointment in order to see the doctor the following morning.
The receptionist even had to check my insurance card again since it had been ages.
I really thought the doctor would just write me a script and send me on my way (since that is what he has always done). This time, however, things went a bit differently.
He was actually hesitant.
“Are you still on Effexor and Lamictal?” He studied his iPad screen as he spoke.
“Um, not any more. I’m on Zoloft, Trazodone, …” My words trailed off. He’s tricked me! Just like a cop.
Then I remembered that he was the one who had prescribed those medications. My paranoia got the better of me obviously. I had already confessed, though, so the secret was out: He now knows about the medication from my psychiatrist.
“You know, you really don’t need Xanax with all those others. We need to get you off the Xanax.”
“But I still get panic attacks when I drive and stuff.”
“Then I’ll prescribe a month’s worth and then we’ll see.”
Not what I wanted to hear.
What if I’m addicted to Xanax? I very well could be. I don’t have enough time or money to go into a rehab program. What will my wife say?
When I first moved back to the U.S., one of my first stops was at a small clinic next to my apartment complex. The only doctor in there told me she didn’t prescribe Xanax because I would “end up in the Betty Ford Clinic like all those Hollywood stars.”
You’ve made your bed. Now you must lie in it.