Bob’s Pharmacy
I doubt I’ll use Bob’s Pharmacy again. Bob’s is one of those old-fashioned, eponymous stand-alones that are as rare as the erstwhile chain, Rexall, once so common. Perhaps Bob bought or inherited the store. No matter. Maybe I’m partial to Bob’s, it being my namesake. Moreover, I’ve stuck with Bob’s for the personalized treatment, the type of service big-box pharmacies tell me they provide, but don’t. My wife worked decades for one of those chains. When she retired, we saw firsthand their level of care. Her going-away luncheon was pizza, and her manager wasn’t even there to give her an ‘atta girl.’ We had accounts for prescriptions at her pharmacy, which still phones us repeatedly to promote convenience by signing up for automatic refills.
Bob, on the other hand, was the pharmacist who once told me that if he could not fill my prescription that day for any reason, he wouldn’t let me leave without giving me a few pills to hold me over.
Over the past year, I would commiserate with Bob as he repeated the woes of his business: how the big boxes wanted him out, how the former pharmacy’s stock was sinking as they overextended themselves getting directly involved with insurance. Bob felt for the customers, believing they were being taken for an even greater ride by the giants. I respected Bob for always coming through for me, sometimes beating the insurance price if I paid cash. He appreciated me, as I was one of a handful of customers who went out of the way to use him, distance-wise.
Some days, Bob would go into a diatribe about his own health issues or his worries about his customers. Once, he said he would personally work on Thanksgiving; I brought him turkey dinner afterward.
Recently, my fears were heightened when I called Bob’s repeatedly over several days to place an order and no one answered. One of the small crew’s registered pharmacists, who happens to attend my church, gave me the lowdown. Bob had had a major health incident, and the likelihood of his returning to work was minimal — if not, completely zero. My heart sank. I asked where to send a get-well card: a rehab facility.
I felt for the team, one of whom retired upon hearing the sad news. Another had already found different employment. After much hand-wringing, I had to swallow the bitter pill—pun not intended—and return to the very chain that had treated my wife less than great. I had to have my doctor call in two prescriptions, both of which had no more refills. To my utter surprise, the chain charged me less than what Bob would have, given that, of late, Bob had begun adding a surcharge onto each prescription, just to keep his business afloat. The low cost was a bonus but beside the point. I simply did not want to leave a pharmacy and pharmacist who genuinely cared about my health.
The bottom line is that all things end. People come, people go. They get uprooted. I think of my Armenian ancestors, no strangers to forced change. How they had to make do. My concerns about legitimate drugs are chicken doo-doo compared to what my family went through, if they were to remain alive.
I wish the best for Bob, his health, his family, his staff. They’ll resurface, hopefully soon. In homage, I painted a watercolor showing his windows papered over and a sign vaguely announcing his situation. As I think of Bob, I also think of my father, Abraham, and his metal art, one piece of which coincidentally was an aluminum mortar and pestle. I’ve positioned it as signage for Bob’s pharmacy.
Hopefully, Bob will one day conjure up a compounded prescription for a customer in a device like my father’s. Get well soon, my friend.
