I have been using insulin for more than twenty years. Five years ago, my doctor switched me from vials and syringes to insulin pens. Cleaner, easier, more convenient: supposedly progress. Except progress comes with a catch: pen needles.
Some years ago, under one of those medical insurance plans that looked excellent on paper and behaved like a bureaucratic punishment machine in real life, I was told that the insurance would not authorize my pen needles until three days later. Three days. I asked the pharmacist a very simple question: what exactly am I supposed to do for those three days? Should I stop using insulin? Should I reuse the same pen needle for the next twelve injections? How exactly should I do that when one insulin is rapid-acting and the other is long-acting, and they should never be mixed?
The pharmacist reacted immediately: “Oh no, don’t do that.”
Of course not.
Did they give me the pen needles anyway? No.
Now I am under a different insurance plan. Better, supposedly. My pen needles are running out again. I go to Publix Pharmacy, where the staff are genuinely excellent, competent, kind, and far more patient than the system deserves. The pharmacist checks the computer and tells me there are no refills. He explains that he will send a fax to the endocrinologist.
I return the next day.
No answer from the endocrinologist.
So now I call the doctor’s office myself. Long explanation. Personal data verification. Waiting. More explanations. Finally: “We’ll call you back.”
Why?
That is the real question.
Why does a person who has been diabetic since 2000 still have to repeatedly ask permission to continue being diabetic correctly? Why must the patient call, the pharmacist call, the office staff process it, the nurse review it, the doctor authorize it, the pharmacy verify it, and the insurance decide whether reality is approved this quarter?
Why create a machine whose sole function is to manufacture delay, stress, travel, anxiety, and unnecessary labor for everyone involved?
This is not a new diagnosis. This is not experimental treatment. This is not optional. This is insulin. These are needles. This is survival.
And yet the system behaves as though every ninety days I must submit a formal request for permission to remain alive. People call this healthcare administration.
I call it organized stupidity. Something is wrong here; not a little wrong, but fundamentally wrong.
If this post resonated with you, please consider sharing it with others who may also find it meaningful. Also:
Hortensia de los Santos
The Hermit Wolf
Truthlog
Thank you for reading.
