Decidedly Obscure Human Complaints.

Had the most difficult time getting my prescription refill (testosterone cypionate) this time around! Generally I just wander in to the pharmacy and say, “I wanna refill.”. I give money, take bag of needles and bottle o’ T, and stumble back out into the world. But when I attempted to refill this time around ON injection day I was told, “Oh, you’re out of refills. Oh, and your doctor won’t authorise a refill until you make an appointment with her.”

Oh, alright. Fair enough. Except that I just got paid and due for a shot.

When I tried to schedule an appointment with her I was told, “You owe us money. It’s in collections. Here’s their number.” Wha? From when? Where? Whyyyyy is this the first time I’ve heard of it and it’s in collections!?

Turns out, even though my doctor’s office had my current address and name - they had never communicated that to billing. So here I was, bumbling along assuming that all of my info is current, but meanwhile billing had my old name and an old ass address that I’d lived at three years ago before even beginning hormone therapy. And, presumably, have been sending bills to ever since.

Yet, throughout this time I’ve obliviously owed mula, I’ve been making appointments every 6 months. For, uh, almost 3 years. And was told nothin’.

Until, one day, I try to refill and suddenly need to make an appointment and it happens to be when I’m due and suddenly can’t because I suddenly owe money to collections and suddenly can’t make an appointment.

Lame-o. Anyway, fortunately it turned out to be a small sum and I’m paying it and was able to make an appointment and refill my prescription. But for a minute there, I had no medication. If I didn’t have an awesome friend back up, I would’ve endured withdrawal and, potentially, medical complications from said withdrawal!

I was already starting to get mega-weird from just missing one day.

See, I inject every Thursday. And last Friday when I went to inject, something bizarre happened. Pre-needle-pokin’ I generally repeat the mantra, “It’s just like butta. It’s just like butta.” But somehow I got it in my head that my leg is a firm chunk o’ callous meat and my spaghetti noodle appendage of an arm wouldn’t be able to stab the needle in fast or hard enough to make it through all of the way. And, if I couldn’t puncture through, I’d have to slowly carve through layers of muscle, veins, and tissue to get the entire needle in.

It’s not true - but the visual paralysed me enough that I just.couldn’t.do.it. I felt confused about how, after almost 3 years of self-injection, I’d suddenly hit a block. Wtf!?

Fortunately a friend poked me and all went well. But the same thing happened again this morning and I had to ask my dad to help. What’s a-goin’-on? I blame Statistics. May as well.