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It should be a simple matter, I think. Go to the doctor and get a prescription. And it is. Though I have no idea — except in the most general sense — of what it says, I have a piece of paper that I will exchange for drugs at my neighborhood pharmacy.

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.