After my
friend Terry came down with the Shingles virus this summer, he sent out a
public service e-mail to many of us recommending that we get the Shingles
vaccine to save ourselves from the pain and discomfort he was enduring.
I took his
advice to heart and called my insurance carrier yesterday. Having been reassured that I
was indeed covered, I went to my local CVS pharmacy this morning.
“Can I help
you?” asked Donnamarie (one word on her name tag), the receptionist at the
pharmacy counter.
“I was
hoping I could schedule an appointment for the Shingles vaccine,” I told her,
relaying the information and pharmacological codes for the vaccine given to me
by a helpful representative at Cigna. As I started to read her the requisite PCN
number, Donnamarie brushed me off.
“Name?’ she
asked.
“Kavanagh:
K-A-V…”
Donnamarie
wasn’t listening. She had begun tapping her keyboard immediately upon hearing
my last name. She was stymied. “Are you in the system?”
“Yes.”
“O.K., let’s
start over,” she said. “Kavanagh: C-A-…
“K-A-,” I
corrected her.
“You have
to let me know that,” said Donnamarie in her most exasperated George Costanza
voice. “Most people spell it with a ‘C,’ you know.”
I knew, yet
gently replied, “Yes, but not all people.”
“That’s how
I’m used to spelling it,” she insisted. Clearly I had got on her bad side. It
was about to get worse.
“First
name?”
“Gerard,” I
said, not bothering to spell it.
Just to
confirm, Donnamarie said, “J-E…”
“That’s
G-E-R-A-R-D,” I said.
Donnamarie
gave me a pitying look. If this had been a cartoon, the thought bubble over her
head would have read, “This guy doesn’t know how to spell his last or his first
name!”
She waved me over to the waiting area, advising me that the pharmacist would shortly
administer the shot, and gave me a clipboard with a form. “Mr. Kavanagh, please
fill this out and put today’s date, July 17, at the top.”
“Thank you.
Today is July 18.”
“Correct.
Yesterday was July 17,” said Donnamarie.
Détente.
