But no, I don’t need to wait, do I? Why not drop the ’scrip off and have it filled while they do the blood tests. I have insurance — it won’t cost me any more or less if I go here or hit Von’s on my way home.

At first, I don’t recognize the problem as a problem. This may be due to my language barrier: I speak English quite fluently, but have some difficulty with insurance jargon. The last sentence that I managed to translate successfully was something like, “Sure, we can try to lower your rates, but you’ll have to go through the underwriting process again. Who knows what will happen?” I knew, actually, and figured a slightly higher rate was better than a significantly higher rate. That is another battle and another story. In this case, I am trying to breathe and sleep. Not necessarily in that order.

I am told, twice, that before my prescription can be filled, I need prior authorization. I look at the prescription in the clerk’s hand — it’s not her fault, I tell myself — and say, “Isn’t the prescription an authorization?” Her downcast eyes and head shake suggest that I am too naive for this world. I should give up now.

I finally understand that my insurance company must get involved. She tries to explain the sordid facts in slow sentences with short words, but I am baffled. I give up. I can take up breathing tomorrow. I’ve been fine so far without regular oxygen.

I go to Von’s. They are always very nice to me. Except this time. They cannot fill my prescription. They want to, no doubt about it, but it cannot be done. Communication with the insurance company is absolutely required. There will be faxes and phone calls and semaphores. The process must be followed exactly. No deviation.

My role, I am relieved to learn, is to pick up my pills in a day or two. Most likely two, but I’d better call first because sometimes this can take up to a week. I understand. I’ve been on hold with my insurance company. It can take a week there, too.

I’m not dying, after all.

I take to stopping by the pharmacy at odd moments over the next four weeks. I like to keep them guessing. I never approach from the same direction. Sometimes I carry orange juice, sometimes it’s toilet paper. They’re very polite, very sorry, and very much without authorization to give me my allergy medicine. They’ll contact my doctor again. He seems to be the roadblock, though his office assures me that’s not the case. It is an easy game of Elimination to find the culprit: not my pharmacy, not me, not my doctor. Hmmm.

I ask the obvious question, I am old enough that I am not embarrassed to be perceived as slightly dim. At retail, the drugs are not overly expensive. But my insurance premiums are overly expensive — if I pay to breathe, will they reimburse me for all my wasted time? — and for what? I want my premium dollars to be more than money I don’t have. I want my prescription and I want my insurance company to pay their fair share. They expect me to do my part; I expect them to do theirs.

I return to my doctor. “Very sorry,” the nice young man at the desk tells me, “but Blue Cross hasn’t gotten back to us. We’ll follow up.”

“Yes, I know, but I really need to sleep. I like to sleep, it’s sort of a hobby, and I’m starting to miss oblivion.”

I again think about paying full price for my drugs. I spend a few hours trying to understand formularies, for they are at the root of my problem. I try to explain to my husband, though I don’t fully understand myself, why my doctor cannot memorize each and every formulary in the world. I try to explain why a drug advertised in the finest women’s magazines isn’t on my particular plan’s formulary. Many people say to me, “Isn’t that available over-the-counter?” They mean Claritin. Claritin is for beginners. The non-allergic see all solutions as being equal.

I offer to call my insurance company. It’s a half-hearted gesture. I know it won’t help. My doctor forks over free samples. I hear the whispered conversation, “But this is all we have.” “She’ll keep coming back if we don’t do something.” “Get the rep on the phone. We need more samples.” I don’t care. I love, love, love free samples. I also love breathing. It is a match made in heaven.

Later that day, I get a call from my doctor. Naturally I assume they want the free samples (less the one I took) back. No, they want my pharmacy to call them. It’s good news, I can tell from the happy nurse’s voice. Sure, I can play go-between when it’s for a good cause.

This time when I go to my pharmacy, they look me right in the eye. Direct eye contact. It’s true, they say, we have filled your prescription.

Generic. The real thing is an unattainable dream.

Four weeks later, I receive a letter from Blue Cross telling me they’ve approved my pre-authorization. It has been noted on my permanent record. Premiums will be raised accordingly.

Even after my accident, it was raining that night, I now recall, I didn’t lose my nerve. Oh sure, for a while I slowed down a little bit. Who wouldn’t? I went back and double-checked. Had things been a little different, probably I would have gone over the edge. Never could figure out how far I would have dropped. That was when I decided it wasn’t my destiny to die in a car. Seems like dying early can be the easy way out for some. I don’t think I’ll ever have things easy.

I like to drive fast. I like being in my car. I don’t mind gridlock so much, though I prefer to speed because then I can also listen to the stereo really loud. I don’t so much like to listen to loud music when I’m sitting still. Sitting still is for NPR. I’m not actually a big fan of NPR, but they do help to keep me informed. That’s always useful.

I think the first to go was my grip. When you drive a lot, you have strong hands. And calluses. You don’t even know it — though I suppose some people do because they wear driving gloves — but your hands develop mechanisms to help cope with holding the steering wheel. You really need to make sure you’re in tune with your steering. Every car is different. Brakes, too. You need to know how your brakes respond. I need good brakes. I race up to each and every red light. It could turn green at any moment, and I like a fast takeoff. My mom thinks someday that’s going to be my downfall: cross traffic can be just as dangerous as drunk drivers.

My hands aren’t so steady on the wheel anymore. That’s not say I have some problem where I shake or need medication. It’s just that my palms have grown soft, my muscles weak. I can’t drive for hours like I used to. Now I do a lot of finger flexing and stretches that look like I’m practicing my jazz hands. It never struck me before that my grip would need to take frequent naps.

I know how to brake coming into curves, accelerate coming out. Smooth, it’s all about smooth. I thought I could be a race car driver, but that was before they let women in. Now if I were younger and I had my nerve, maybe I’d give it a try. Though I think the space they have for the actual person seems a bit small. Claustrophobic. Not me, I mean, I don’t think I’m claustrophobic. The space is small, especially when you think bulky suit and helmet. Like the driver is an afterthought. Must leave lots of room for the engine, you know.

Last night, we were in the car. I wasn’t driving — I’d been out in the rain all day, and I thought I’d like to ride for a little while. It wasn’t really that wet, you know, but the roads were slick. Not as slick as after the first couple of rains of the year — it’s a problem living in a place where it doesn’t rain that much. Oil builds up on the road, and when it’s wet, you slide all over the place. Always unexpectedly. Like you’re timing the brakes just right, coming to a smooth stop without a problem, and then out of nowhere, you start fishtailing. Usually happens in front of someone. Like a cop. I tend to get nervous when I see and black-and-white. For no good reason, except for the speeding thing.

Anyway, we were driving, and he made a left. This wasn’t a sharp turn or anything. A lazy left. But the road was blocked in places due to construction, and I didn’t feel safe. It was a good turn, I can see that now, but then I felt like were going in too fast, tires sliding instead of gripping the road — maybe I should check my treads, that might help. All my vital functions shut down for maybe two, three seconds. Is that how people die from shock? Do people die from shock?

Before that turn wouldn’t have bothered me. Like I said, it wasn’t a challenge even if the roads were wet. But now I don’t have any guts. The last time I slid after braking, I sat at that red light, shaking in a way I’ve never shook before. I was scared. I wanted to go home. I would have pulled over and tried to slow down my pulse rate, but it’s a dicey neighborhood. The first safe place to pull to the side is in front of a head shop. Even at ten in the morning, that seems like a precarious thing to do. There was a murder just down the block a month ago — the candles are still there. I wonder who cleans that sort of stuff up.

Driving home, I was going fast. Not too fast. That time of night, there are still lots of cars on the road. A reasonable fast. Keeping pace with the car in front of me, not annoying the car behind me. I like it when you’re in rhythm with the other drivers. It’s like we’re in an elaborate dance. Cars slide in and out of lanes, every movement choreographed, every vehicle positioned just so. There’s a sense of danger, but no chance of collision. We have practiced these moves until they’re automatic.

We, my fellow drivers and me, came to a big curve. It’s an old road, so things are not properly banked. Pretty much you hit the flat of the curve and the highway doesn’t do a thing to help you. You can see old and new bumpers stuck in the railings like modern sculpture. The shoulder is covered with the yellow glow of shattered reflectors. Some of the wood is split, jagged in places, you don’t want to hit that head-on. The metal supports dividing northbound and southbound are buckled from impact. If you look to the right, you see car-sized bubbles where the chain link fence caught somebody before they fell into what would be a river any place else.

So I braked. I braked. And jerked my wheel. And broke the rhythm. And my heart was hurting my chest. And I knew I should have just quit then. I lost my nerve.