The Pharmacy Years: Institutional, Part One**
There was a nine month gap between my first and second pharmacy jobs. I graduated from Palm Beach Atlantic College (now University) in May 1991 and began my second Rx job in February 1992 at a place that I will not call by its actual name, lest there be any backlash from someone reading this who may have been familiar with it. In between, I moved to Clermont, in the central Florida area, to be near my fiancee. I worked a series of fruitless sales jobs (all commission based) and even for one week doing telemarketing for a carpet cleaning company that summer. My engagement ended. I moved back to West Palm Beach and for about 4 months I worked in medical records at a Humana Center. Not too bad of a job but hardly inspiring. I briefly dated a co-worker there, again violating the old rule.
Then, as the new year dawned I got a job at a resort hotel a little south of where I lived. I was to work in the Comptroller's office for the food and beverage department. I spent the first week on the loading dock, helping the guys move perishables and meanwhile learning the inventory units of vegetables and herbs. Trucks, all damned day. To entertain myself, I counted how many times in a day someone yelled "Get this outta here!" One of the drivers proudly showed us his can of "Fokking" beer, some European brew, the name of which he thought was hysterically funny.
The kitchen storerooms were also quite active. I watched executive chefs throw tantrums. Grabbing and flinging spinach and many other greens in the air in disgust as they were not good enough.
I was on call for spot inventories. One night, I received a call at 1 A.M. with instructions to be there at 4 for the liquor count. It made sense to do it at such an odd hour, but it was brutal on my sleep cycle.
As the weeks went on, I began to get that "gut" feeling that being what was essentially a bean counter/number cruncher was not for me. I did enjoy the cafeteria. Employess only paid a quarter for breakfast and $.50 for lunches and dinners. Given my ridiculously long hours, I frequently had all 3 meals there. Great grub, too. But I was far from encouraged, and I knew this faitly quickly. Luckily, a nurse friend of mine had heard that a local independent pharmacy was hiring techs for their institutional side: supplying medications for nursing homes, assisted living, and rehabilitation centers. All new to me. I was game.
The business had a store in front, a real old school mom and pop retail; they were still using a typewriter for prescription labels! When I went for my interview, I was lead through it and deep into the bowels of what appeared to be a converted garage. I met with a friendly but suspicious man named *Vincent, the operations director, who gave off some serious mafioso vibes (this, faithful LD readers will note, would happen again 4 years later at another place I worked), which to my knowledge turned out to be untrue. His son, *Clark, was the chief pharmacist, a bit of a playboy who drove a Corvette. Father and son did not exactly get along swimmingly. One fight turned ugly enough for junior to punch a hole into a wooden door. Junior also at least once violated the fishing off the company pier rule.
Tablet medications were dispensed in either unit-dose (individual packets) or bingo cards in quatities of 30, 60, and 90. There was a laminar flow hood for IV prep. My clinical knowledge really expanded during my 5 odd years at this pharmacy. I learned to read unreadable prescriptions, filled with doctors' Latin chicken scratch. I tagged along with Clark during his site visits, spot checking for potential violations for OSHA inspections and giving inservices to staff. I started as a pill packer and moved up to inputter, interpreting faxed Rxs that often came in reams of paper when new patients were admitted to facilities.
The co-worker dynamic was anything but boring from day one. When you place 30 odd people in a small space you're bound to have drama. As before, I had to play peacemaker between my mostly female cohorts, at one point it looked like things would come to blows. It was a monumentally stressful, horribly disorganized, angry place. I watched myself succumb to the bad vibes, even once flinging a phone across a room and knocking items off of shelves in disgust. I even shattered a glass door with a kick, but I wasn't trying to, and it wasn't in anger, just as a joke. Oops. At least I didn't push an entire counter of carefully prepared orders to the floor like junior did.
Profanity spewed freely through this workplace as well. The term "fuck a duck" was a particular favorite among some of the ladies. This pharmacy looked, often smelled, and certainly sounded like an overgrown locker room. The atmosphere took its toll, eventually.
There are so many stories about that place I don't even know where to begin.
TO BE CONTINUED....
*not the real name
**A single entry for this phase just isn't enough
Then, as the new year dawned I got a job at a resort hotel a little south of where I lived. I was to work in the Comptroller's office for the food and beverage department. I spent the first week on the loading dock, helping the guys move perishables and meanwhile learning the inventory units of vegetables and herbs. Trucks, all damned day. To entertain myself, I counted how many times in a day someone yelled "Get this outta here!" One of the drivers proudly showed us his can of "Fokking" beer, some European brew, the name of which he thought was hysterically funny.
The kitchen storerooms were also quite active. I watched executive chefs throw tantrums. Grabbing and flinging spinach and many other greens in the air in disgust as they were not good enough.
I was on call for spot inventories. One night, I received a call at 1 A.M. with instructions to be there at 4 for the liquor count. It made sense to do it at such an odd hour, but it was brutal on my sleep cycle.
As the weeks went on, I began to get that "gut" feeling that being what was essentially a bean counter/number cruncher was not for me. I did enjoy the cafeteria. Employess only paid a quarter for breakfast and $.50 for lunches and dinners. Given my ridiculously long hours, I frequently had all 3 meals there. Great grub, too. But I was far from encouraged, and I knew this faitly quickly. Luckily, a nurse friend of mine had heard that a local independent pharmacy was hiring techs for their institutional side: supplying medications for nursing homes, assisted living, and rehabilitation centers. All new to me. I was game.
The business had a store in front, a real old school mom and pop retail; they were still using a typewriter for prescription labels! When I went for my interview, I was lead through it and deep into the bowels of what appeared to be a converted garage. I met with a friendly but suspicious man named *Vincent, the operations director, who gave off some serious mafioso vibes (this, faithful LD readers will note, would happen again 4 years later at another place I worked), which to my knowledge turned out to be untrue. His son, *Clark, was the chief pharmacist, a bit of a playboy who drove a Corvette. Father and son did not exactly get along swimmingly. One fight turned ugly enough for junior to punch a hole into a wooden door. Junior also at least once violated the fishing off the company pier rule.
Tablet medications were dispensed in either unit-dose (individual packets) or bingo cards in quatities of 30, 60, and 90. There was a laminar flow hood for IV prep. My clinical knowledge really expanded during my 5 odd years at this pharmacy. I learned to read unreadable prescriptions, filled with doctors' Latin chicken scratch. I tagged along with Clark during his site visits, spot checking for potential violations for OSHA inspections and giving inservices to staff. I started as a pill packer and moved up to inputter, interpreting faxed Rxs that often came in reams of paper when new patients were admitted to facilities.
The co-worker dynamic was anything but boring from day one. When you place 30 odd people in a small space you're bound to have drama. As before, I had to play peacemaker between my mostly female cohorts, at one point it looked like things would come to blows. It was a monumentally stressful, horribly disorganized, angry place. I watched myself succumb to the bad vibes, even once flinging a phone across a room and knocking items off of shelves in disgust. I even shattered a glass door with a kick, but I wasn't trying to, and it wasn't in anger, just as a joke. Oops. At least I didn't push an entire counter of carefully prepared orders to the floor like junior did.
Profanity spewed freely through this workplace as well. The term "fuck a duck" was a particular favorite among some of the ladies. This pharmacy looked, often smelled, and certainly sounded like an overgrown locker room. The atmosphere took its toll, eventually.
There are so many stories about that place I don't even know where to begin.
TO BE CONTINUED....
*not the real name
**A single entry for this phase just isn't enough
Comments