Thirteen days ago, my phone pinged: “Your Rx is now available for pick up.” I was 17 minutes into my daughter’s field hockey game; I was dreaming of the glass of sparkling rosé (or three) I was going to pour when I got home. The second time the impatient pharmacy messaged? I was cleaning cat vomit off my son’s bedsheets. I can’t even talk about the third time—like, legally I can’t. Today, the bitchy electronic prodding system declares: “Today is the last day your Rx will be available for pick up.” So, even though I have already worked a full…