Sorry. I have spent the last two hours on the phone with my physician's office, its nurses, my pharmacy and my insurance company, attempting to refill roughly the dozen medications I've been on since my last surgery, which was last September. The problem is that new insurance has replaced the insurance I had last summer and as recently as this spring, hence virtually every Rx needs to be reauthorized not by physicians, but by insurance bookkeepers.
Some (cheaper) meds have been okayed rather quickly, some have been delayed but nonetheless approved, and some have been outright denied. An appeal process is, however, available — which means self-torture for perhaps weeks to come. Calls, letters, explanations marked "URGENT APPEAL," documentation of past pharmacological effectiveness, correspondence described as missives of "medical necessity" — all are the professionally recommended weaponry of this patient's begging.
Before it's all over, I'll require a newly prescribed battery of psychotropic drugs to counter the onset of clinical paranoia — and of course every medication to treat it will have to be pre-authorized by the very people who afflicted me with it.