On asinine rules

I am an appreciator of rules.  I respect authority.  I've never done drugs.  I didn't sneak vodka into movie theaters in high school.  I refused to skip school, smoke cigarettes or stay out past my curfew.  Perhaps that makes me boring.  You won't find a person in the world who calls me a rebel.   Before the age of 10, I was getting mad at my parents for driving down random roads and driveways to "have an adventure" because there was a prominently posted "no trespassing" sign at the entrance from the road.

That's just me.

As I've aged, I've started to question more of the rules.  My current stance is that if a rule has a logical reason behind it, I am probably good with it.  But if the guidelines don't make any sense, this mama's probably going to push on it.  That's what mamas do.  We don't take crap, and we don't accept asinine rules.

Earlier this evening, Nate went to pick up Will's prescription for his emergency seizure medication, Diastat.  Unfortunately Will has had a couple of seizures since my last post, and we have to use the Diastat to stop them.  Each dosage is a plunger filled with medicine, and they come pre-packaged from the manufacturer in dosages of two.  We filled the last Diastat refill in the 4th week of May. We were in need of another refill.

When Nate went to get the medicine, the pharmacy told him it could not be refilled because it had not been 20 days since we filled it last.  That is what the prescription was written for.  Though they wanted to help us, they said their hands were tied by the insurance company.  Nate was beside himself and had two kids in the car, so opted to drive away, calm down, and call them later.

I called our insurance company while stuck in traffic on the way home.  I know that if it had been me at the pharmacy, I also would have gotten emotional and upset.  In the absence of Diastat at home, we either have to call 911 for help or take Will to the emergency room ourselves.  The idea and memories of past such situations can quickly come back and cause me and Nate to get emotional about having the Diastat on hand... but I was feeling pretty calm when I dialed.

The woman on the other end sounded kind.  She listened to the story and I could hear her clicking away on the computer.  She reiterated that the prescription could not be filled again until June 10th.

I explained Will's seizures.  I explained that the Diastat was an emergency medication to end a seizure, much like an Epi-Pen is to someone with allergies.  I explained that his seizures did not occur on a schedule, and that while I appreciated that the prescription was written for filling once every 20 days, I needed them to override the date restriction and approve the pharmacy to fill the order.

She tried to tell me that if I could get a new prescription to get it filled sooner, they would honor that.  Mind you, it was 6pm.  I was not going to get a new prescription.  She sent an approval request for an override and was denied immediately.

Then she told me there was nothing she could do to help.  There were rules about this kind of thing.

Asinine rules.  Rules that don't make any sense, that lack logic and put lives at risk.  What kind of sense does that make?  No, you can't have this medication because of semantics... so good luck tonight.  Hope he doesn't seize.

I refused to accept that answer.  Without raising my voice or showing emotion, I started again.  I used a technique I learned several years ago from a co-worker.  I gave her the same exact information about Will, his seizures, the Diastat, the risks of them not filling it.  I did not change my story or my tone.

She tried to push through another override and was again denied.  "I don't know what to tell you," she said.  "There is nothing I can do."

We called my co-worker's technique "the rule of three," because he would go through his soliloquy three times.  Each time he said the same words, used the same inflection, and changed nothing.  After the third time, he had worn his opponent down enough that they gave in.  It worked like a charm.

So I launched into my story for the third time.  When I was done, she was silent.  I asked if she was waiting for me to say more, and she told me that she was waiting for another override approval.  It was denied.  "There is nothing anyone can do to help you.  There is just no way to do it. You have to get a new prescription or wait to fill the medication on June 10."

I was quiet for a moment.  Still non-emotional and even-toned, I told her there's always a way to do it.  There are always around the rules, especially when they don't have the best interest of your child at heart.  And that who ever she was talking to about my override probably COULD help me, but just didn't want to.

She asked if she could transfer me to her manager.  I didn't ask for it.  I didn't demand it, either.  But I accepted happily and thanked her for her help. 

Within minutes, a less than cheery sounding manager joined the line.  "So Mrs. Slavik," she started.  "I understand you are giving your son more than the prescribed dose of his medication."

Ugh, at this moment, my blood started to boil.  I had been at this now for 30 minutes.  Traffic was starting to move.  I started to doubt the rule of three.  Maybe the only way to bend the rules away from their asininity was to scream and yell and cry?  I've tried that method before too. And felt like a complete ass afterwards.

I took a deep breath.  Perhaps my method will be called "the rule of four and a deep breath."

I explained Will's seizures. I explained that the Diastat was an emergency medication to end a seizure, much like an Epi-Pen is to someone with allergies. I explained that his seizures did not occur on a schedule, and that while I appreciated that the prescription was written for filling once every 20 days, I needed them to override the date restriction and approve the pharmacy to fill the order.

And she agreed.  She processed the override. 

Not without adding "I am going to do this just this one time, Mrs. Slavik.  You really need to get this prescription written for the amount of the medicine that your son needs."

For a second, I couldn't find my tongue to bite it.  I started to tell her that I would be happy to have the prescription written so we could get one plunger of Diastat each day.  At $200 a shot, I am sure they would be happy to fill that.

But thankfully I stopped myself at that moment.  I thanked her for deciding to help my son.  And within 20 minutes, I was walking in the door with the 2 plungers of emergency Diastat, feeling pretty proud of myself.  I am happy that I have matured to a point that I question rules now, understand enough about them to question the asinine ones, and am strong enough to push for what Will needs.

I usually get emotional and frustrated by these events.  Sometimes they make me feel beaten down.  I never stop, but I certainly stumble.  Weakness is not a trait of a good advocate.  But with this Diastat win, I finally felt like a confident, assured advocate for Will.