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Nimm’ einen Groschen und erzähl’ das der Parkuhr…

Parkscheibe

Juni 2017
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Mein Parkplatz

Wer parkte zuletzt?

Eingeparkt

Parkscheine

Straßenmeisterei

Bei riesigen Nebenwirkungen…

…fressen Sie die Packungsbeilage und schlagen Sie Ihren Arzt auf den Apotheker!

Ein spezieller Impfstoff wurde hier letztens besorgt. 3 Dosen (Mz. von Dosis, nicht von Konservendose ;) sind davon nötig. Verabreicht werden muß es vom Facharzt, bei Minderjährigen, die im Haushalt krankenmitversichert sind, übernimmt die Kasse die Kosten.

Nun ging es denn heute mit Termin dabei…
Es kam die Frage des Arztes, ob das Präparat im Kühlschrank aufbewahrt worden wäre.
Nein, wurde es nicht. Die Gabe des Serums wurde daraufhin verweigert.

Sicher, im Nachhinein sieht man es klein auf der Packung aufgedruckt: „Im Kühlschrank aufbewahren“
Beim Abholen in der Apotheke hat jedoch niemand darauf hingewiesen.

In unserer Apotheke läuft es gewöhnlich so ab, daß trotz einer Warteschlange von 5 Leuten der Schnupfenpatient eine minutenlange Belehrung über die Anwendung von Nasenspray und KASPERIN Brausetabletten bekommt; daß man das Nasenspray nicht überdosieren (ein Sprühstoß pro Nasenloch dreimal am Tag reicht!) und nicht dauernd anwenden soll, weil es sonst zu einer Art Kreislauf kommt: Überreizung der Nasenschleimhaut, Anschwellen, Benutzung des Sprays und alles wieder von vorne.

Hole ich per Rezept Omeprazol (einen Magensäure-Blocker) und gleichzeitig ASS-Tabletten, also Acetylsalicylsäure wie in KASPERIN, kommt gleich die Frage: „Ist das beides für Sie? Bei Schmerzen würde ich dann eher Paracetamol empfehlen, wenn Sie sowieso schon einen säureempfindlichen Magen haben…“

Blah, seier, blubb.

Wenn die falschenrichtigen Leute am Tresen stehen, darf man sich sogar noch Belehrungen über das Aufkleben von Wundpflastern anhören, während hinter einem die Schlange wartet. Selbst die Aufschrift des Rezepts “Spironolactonyl ratiopharm 3x 1 pro Tag” wird dem Kunden noch wortreich verdeutlicht.

All dieser Kram steht in der Packungsbeilage. Müßte also nicht erzählt werden.

Bei dem Impfserum steht sogar außen auf der Packung: „Im Kühlschrank lagern“. Nur ist es in diesem Fall sehr wichtig.

Normalerweise weiß man, daß Medikamente kühl und dunkel aufbewahrt werden sollen. An Kühlschrank denkt der Normalmensch nicht. Und wenn schon anderen Leuten erklärt wird, was ohnehin auf der Packung steht – warum ist es in diesem Falle ausgeblieben?

Falls Ihr Euch fragt, warum ich mich darüber so aufrege:
Es geht nicht um ein Päckchen Pillen für 9,95, das ohne Kühlschrank nächste Woche nicht mehr brauchbar ist.
Sondern es geht um einen Impfstoff, der in 3 Dosen verabreicht werden muß.

Eine Dosis kostet 150 Euro!

Und da kann der sonst so wortreiche Apotheker nicht die Zähne auseinanderkriegen und den Hinweis „Bitte im Kühlschrank lagern!“ hervorbringen? :shoot:

Die drei notwendigen Dosen zahlt die Kasse.
Die nun vergurkte Ampulle wohl wir. :heul:

Aber entsprechendes Feedback wird unsere Apotheke morgen ernten.

14 Kommentare

  1. Lucki sagt:

    Ärgerlich! Vielleicht wollte Dir der Apotheker dies auch erklären, aber du warst ob der anderen Erklärungen schon stinksauer und hast nur abgewinkt. Na, sei ehrlich…ansonsten gilt ‘wer lesen will, ist auch im Vorteil’ oder so ähnlich. Ich weiß, ich spotte jeder Beschreibung :pfeif:
    Einen lieben Gruß
    Lucki

  2. Angela sagt:

    Ich hasseLIEBE Zwangsbelehrungen durch Apothekenpersonal!
    Diese Leute haben schließlich einen Auftrag und sind beseelt davon!! :teacher:
    Ganz besonders schön auch die pikanten Details bei Pilzinfektionen im Genitalbereich …. :lmaa: … oder Anwendung von Hämorriden-Salbe.

    Zum Impfstoff: falls es “nur” einer gegen Grippe wäre .. würde ICH einfach mit dem gleichen nochmal hingehen und sagen, der sei nun im Kühlschrank gelagert …nach DER Erfahrung!(Brustton der Überzeugung). Hab da Hornhaut auf der Seele .. mir selbst gegenüber.

    Aber ich denke, sowas wird es wohl nicht sein wird …. :(
    Deshalb: gib dem Apotheker Saures!
    Is schon mehr als ärgerlich …..

  3. GalenFrecy sagt:

    Существует такая услуга – добровольное медицинское обслуживание .
    Она предполагает, что пациент платит небольшую сумму за то, что посещает врачей весь год БЕСПЛАТНО.
    Однако опросы показали, что лишь 4% жителей Санкт-Петербурга знают о такой программе.
    Почему так происходит?
    Потому что клиникам выгоднее брать плату за каждый визит.
    А если какой-нибудь сотрудник клиники попытается посоветовать добровольное медицинское обслуживание клиенту – это сулит ему увольнением.
    Эта информация уже спровоцировала множество скандалов, после того как информацию об услуге распространил один возмущенный врач.
    Его уволили , после того, как он предложил ДМО постоянному клиенту.
    Страшно, что официальные положения по ДМО находятся в открытом доступе, просто натыкались на эту информацию единицы.
    Как отстоять свои права?
    О правилах оказания такой услуги и обязанностях частных клиник можно узнать, просто вбив в Яндекс фразу: “добровольное медицинское обслуживание”.
    Обязательно обслуживание, а не страхование.

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    ?Memories and Hopes: The Top Essays
    In the in excess of 200 college software essays that students sent us this yr, these – about an artist father, an affluent suburb, frugality plus a family with no college graduates – have been the ones we liked most appropriate. MAY 13, 2016 Related Article
    Sarah Benson with her father, Jonathan Benson, in her father’s woodworking shop at their home in Lorton, Va. Credit T.J. Kirkpatrick with the New York Times
    Higher School: South County Significant School College Plans: Virginia Tech
    My father takes me down to the arroyo when I am so smaller that I do not yet achieve his waist. My feet fumble across flaking desert skin and he pulls me along gently by my hand and tells me to be careful of little cacti as well as the bones of dead jack rabbits. He does not let me straddle the rift where the earth divides into repelling mounds of sand. Instead, he slips his hands beneath my arms and swings me about within a 50 % circle, his red face wrinkling into a smile.
    That morning, my father had crept into my room with the sun and shaken me into consciousness. “Get your sneakers,” he had whispered. “We’re going over a treasure hunt.”
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    My father gives me a book about Georgia O’Keeffe for my fifth birthday. We go through it together and he bounces me on his knee and licks his fingertips before turning the webpages. He points in a landscape that looks like a rumpled tablecloth and tells me, “This is why we’re in this article.” I steal a flashlight and flip through the book below my covers at night. I touch the same glossy picture and whisper, “This is why we’re right here.”
    When I am 6 years old, the Sunday school teacher asks me what my father does for a living. I tell her he can be an artist like Georgia O’Keeffe. I do not know that I am lying. I do not know that he hasn’t sold a piece in months. I do not know that my mother sits within the kitchen table after I go to sleep and cries seeing that the mortgage is past due and she can’t figure out a way to tell me that this 12 months, Santa Claus just might probably not allow it to be.
    For Christmas, my father gives me a sparkling blue stone he found during the arroyo. I say thank you and pretend I mean it. Later, I stand over the edge of our brick patio and wind up my arm and throw the rock as far as it will go. It disappears inside the bristles of the pine tree.
    I do not say goodbye to the arroyo before shutting the car door and stretching the seatbelt across my chest. I do not say goodbye as I think that I won’t miss it. We are leaving New Mexico. We are going to New York where my father will get a real job and we will become a real family. We drive alongside a cliff, the rock rough and jagged and sprinkled by using a thousand tiny diamonds. I push my finger against the glass. This is why we’re below.
    When I am 16 years old, my father takes me again to New Mexico and we go once way more to the arroyo. The neglected trail is extensive gone now and we stumble in our tennis shoes over dried up cacti and colorless desert flowers. I am too old now to hold my father’s hand. He walks a small number of steps ahead of me and I do not see his face.
    The arroyo is bone-dry, littered with dented soda cans, beaten strips of tire and mud-stained garbage bags. A multitude of monsoon seasons have left the sides in the arroyo tall and smooth, except with the dried roots of long-dead plants, continue to lodged inside dirt, which achieve out toward us like skeleton hands.
    My father crouches over and his shirt draws taut across his back again. He delicately parts the earth with his fingers and searches for something that he will never choose again.
    “No extra pottery,” he says. He looks at me and squints his eyes against the sun. “It must have washed far absent by now.”
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    Isabella DeSimone on campus at Suffield Academy in Suffield, Conn. Credit Jessica Hill for your New York Times
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    My small-scale body and head of curly hair trotted over to the refrigerator in search of some butter for my bread. I shifted some cans of half-opened Goya beans in addition to the remnant of the brick of dulce de leche that had seen more suitable days. After considerably shuffling, I spotted the big brown container of margarine. Carefully placing the tub within the kitchen table and readying for my “feast,” I opened the container. To my dismay, it was filled with arroz con pollo. My eyes tightened and my stomach made Chewbacca noises. Maybe I could mash the dulce de leche on top on the bread.
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    Erica Meister describes her hometown, Northville, Mich. as reckless. Credit Laura McDermott for that New York Times
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    In 2015, Northville, the position I consider to be my hometown, was named the snobbiest city in Michigan. I prefer to describe Northville as reckless.
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    Several years again, if the rap aesthetic was particularly prominent, most with the males came to school in ill-fitting jeans that sagged below their designer boxers, sporting T-shirts and necklaces that most likely price tag much more than the weekly income for that average person, in imitation of their favorite rapper. They carried themselves like Eminem and spewed out Jay Z verses about being raised in extreme urban poverty and racism, before parroting their parents’ views for the “communist” welfare programs.
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