…”she’s been so tired lately, and I just want to make sure she’s taking the right things. You understand.”
I did understand. Better than he thought.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said, in my most boring pharmacist voice. “I can’t discuss another adult’s medications with anyone, even a spouse. It’s federal law. If your wife wants to talk about her prescriptions, she’s welcome to step over to the consultation window with me.”
He laughed, easy. “Oh, she doesn’t mind. Right, honey?”
She opened her mouth, and I cut in before she had to answer. “Actually, ma’am, I do need you at the consultation window for a moment anyway. There’s a question about your insurance.” I pointed to the little booth with the frosted glass. “Just patients, sorry. Privacy rules.”
He didn’t like it. But there were three people in line behind him, and he smiled and said, “Of course.”
In the booth, I talked fast and quietly. I told her she had the right to ask her insurance company and our pharmacy to send her health communications only to her, at a different phone number or address. It’s called a confidential communications request, and nobody has to approve it but her. I printed the form while we talked. Then I wrote a domestic violence hotline number on the back of her receipt, folded it twice, and put it inside the paper bag, under her purchase.
“You don’t have to do anything today,” I said. “Just know it’s there.”
She walked out with him, his hand on her back. I didn’t sleep well that night.
Four months later, she came back to my counter alone. She looked different. Shorter hair, a new coat, standing up straight. She slid a small envelope across the counter. Inside was a thank-you card and the same folded receipt, softer now, like it had been carried around for a long time.
“I called on a Tuesday,” she said. “I’ve been gone ever since. I just wanted you to know it worked.”
