I have shit to do

It was a long day.

Everyone had a problem. No one wants to take any sort of personal responsibility for their meds. The number of people who come in for refills on scripts that don’t have any refills is ridiculous. That number is rivaled only the the staggering number of people who a) act like it is my problem, and b) say “But I need it, I’ve been out for a week now!” Then we add the people who are freaking out over the Corona virus, and I want to tear my hair out. StressedRPh is still going to Italy, which gives her a unexpected 3-week vacation because corporate requires a 2-week quarantine upon her return.

But yes, long day.

His bag came in today, along with 40 lbs of cat litter and a shitload of priority mail boxes. He called tonight and we discussed things to get in order before they deport him. He wanted his driver’s license, unfortunately, according to the ICE guy, it’s state property now. What does he need to get an ID in the province? How about a bank account? There was a bit of discussion about what type of vehicle I should get, and what would be considered “proof of residence” to get his ID. He’s not as impatient as he was last week; rather, he accepts this is happening and he can neither stop it nor speed it up.

To be honest, I think I’m the more impatient of the two of us. I hate not being able to make plans. If I had an actual idea of what I’m dealing with, I could push myself to get shit done. As it is, I need to get back to cleaning. He’s not calling tomorrow, and I plan on bagging a bunch of my old clothes to be donated. I need to go through the basement as well, I want to find that box of comics to sell this weekend.

I packed the bag, jamming as much of what he wanted into it. It was hard; I guess I had a bit of that spark of optimism, and this is all just a big misunderstanding. I would wake up and he’d be downstairs telling the cats the same thing he told them every morning. “You know the way this works,” he’d say. “Coffee, pee, then kitty breakfasts.”

He wanted a bunch of stuff, like jeans and boots. “Pack my Docs,” he said. “Remember, I wear both the white and the black socks with them.”

Fine.

I’ll find the black and white socks. Are there an even number of each? I’ve got no clue. I just stuffed as many black and white socks into a gallon-sized plastic bag. The bag is bigger than I expected; however, it worked out. I managed to stuff some extra things in there for him.

I was nice enough to pack a lighter to go with his cigarettes.