It wasn’t my imagination. People really are insane.
I say this after watching the utter uproar of panic these people have been whipping themselves into since Wednesday.
Yesh. There is a hurricane bearing down on Houston. Yesh. People in Houston should be concerned about said hurricane.
No. People 250 miles north east of Houston shouldn't be so terribly concerned.
They have purchased all the bread. They have purchased all the water. They have purchased all the milk and batteries and matches and candles and gasoline from Houston to much further north than I have traveled recently, and all for what at most may be three days of rain.
If it were the evacuees, I’d be a bit more patient, but not with the locals (the majority of our hoarders). For the love of god, missing Matlock because the cable has fuzzed out is not cause for a Level Red Terror Alert. One of my technicians alone bought of 12 loaves of bread.
She has three kids.
Oh, and a dog.
I hope they like bread.
But she was so worried because, and I quote, “The bread’s just flying off the shelves out there. There won’t be any left!”
No, there will not if everyone hoards it. Hmmm? Since when did bread trucks melt in the rain anyhow? Mrs. Baird isn’t halting production just because Houston is damp (as it usually is).
I don’t know. Perhaps, as is often the case, I am being entirely too nonchalant. Perhaps hell fire will rain down. Perhaps four skelatonized horse men will ride across a crimson sky.
Perhaps, it shall just rain (as the weathermen have been so kind as to prophesize, sans horsemen).
AnhMai, one of the evacuees, safe from the hurricane’s wrath and bored to her wits end with lack of work called the pharmacy (who’s number, until today, I did not know that she had) and, having been greeted by one of the technicians, demanded, “This is Dr. N-----, I want to speak to the pharmacist, now!)
Yes, we only ever have more than one pharmacist on Mondays.
Yes, she knew that I would be working.
Yes, I was desperately trying to figure out just who I had managed to piss off when a frightened technician told me, “There’s a doctor on line four who sounds really mad.”
“Pharmacist,” I answered in my crispest, most professional clip.
“You’re still there? I can’t believe it!” an all too chipper AnhMai asks/exclaims, apparently also of the opinion that all pharmacies must close in inclement weather (I have answered that very same question from innumerable patients over the last two days. Each time, I must fight the urge to reply, “No, we’re closed, I’m just sitting up here, in the dark, answering the phone for the fun of it. But it was nice talking. Bye!”).
“I’m still here.” I assure her, “Safe and sound,” reminding, “It isn’t even supposed to start raining until tomorrow evening.”
“Just so long as you remember to tape your windows,” she chided before hanging up and allowing me to go back to the massive number of prescriptions waiting to filled and checked (apparently this storm is going to be so bad, that if you don’t fill every medication you have ever taken or could possibly ever take ever again in your (no doubt soon to be much shorter) life, the pharmacy will blow away, taking with it your records and any chance you ever had of having had medical attention ever again).
Tired, much? Perhaps.
Truthfully, I just hope that it rains hard enough to wash the bird shit off my car.