Jay Sochoka, BSPharm, RPh, CIP

Frances Sochovka was an extraordinary woman. She was dad’s favorite aunt, and I was quite fond of her. 

The only thing I know about her work history is that she held a job of some excellent rank at the Pentagon. In the eyes of the Sochovkas, she was the first one who “made it.”

She was always a lady, and any time I spoke with her, I was amazed by her diction. She sounded like she came from England but without the accent. Her speech was perfectly clipped, and she had an amazing vocabulary.

After I read my maternal grandfather’s eulogy, she asked if I ever had “elocution lessons,” because she thought the way I spoke was beautiful. A laudatory assertion from her about my speaking ability could be considered a compliment of the highest order. When it comes to the way I speak, I can only say that I am my great aunt’s great nephew.

Even in the years she was riddled with dementia, she was ever the lady. She lost her faculties without ever losing her personality.

When I got the call that she was actively dying after living 94 highball-loving years, I swear my dad guided me through it. I was going about my business, and next thing I knew, I was on my way to the hospice unit where she would breathe her last breath.

I walked up to her deathbed, and I had no idea who was dying in front of me. A breathing husk of a female human being lay before me.

Frances was long gone. I cried at her bedside, as I’m sure Dad would have.

When my Pop lay dying in a hospital, the nurse asked if he could be made “more comfortable.” When the family agreed, a massive bolus dose of morphine was administered, and he passed away most comfortably.

When it was Dad’s turn, we were given a comfort pack for his active dying, and one of the pharmaceuticals was high-dose morphine concentrate. When his quality of life was absolute zero, I gave him milliliter upon milliliter until he passed. It is what any good son would do.

When I saw Aunt Frances’s mottled shell, I knew there was nothing left. As a pharmacist, there was only one thing I could do for her, but the rules of the hospice forbade me from doing it. In their eyes, she was as comfortable as she was going to get.

While her air hunger would be treated by hourly doses of lower-dose morphine than I would recommend, nothing would be done to actively help her pass. For 17.5 hours, she could do nothing but breathe once per minute.

While she passed as peacefully as she was allowed, I felt that it was nothing short of barbaric. There was nothing resembling a life function other than apnea, and there was no reason for her or the family to be put through any more.

What we can do for our dogs we can’t do for our human loved ones, and I think that needs to change.

Jay Sochoka, RPh, is going to have a highball for his dear Aunt Frances.

Articles

Frances Sochovka was an extraordinary woman. She was dad's favorite aunt, and I was quite fond of her. 

A Farewell to Frances

A few weeks ago, I quietly lamented the passing of another Steamtown Marathon without being in it. I really wanted to do it this year, but with my mom's surgery and recovery taking up the majority of the winter and spring when I would normally train, the runs were not there to build up any sort of serious mileage.

A few days after the race, my wife Sheryl's cousin, Beki Kosydar-Krantz, posted that she wanted to walk the first half of the Steamtown Marathon course in a genuine, imitation half-marathon. The event was totally unsanctioned, but the distance was totally legit.

On an early Sunday morning, 5 brave souls toed the start of the Steamtown Marathon course. Beki led the gang of her cousin Nicole, her neighbor Paul, myself, and Sheryl, who about a month ago walked roughly the same distance through Philadelphia to see Pope Francis.

That journey was spiritual. This one was personal.

Sheryl and Beki found out they were cousins when we looked through Beki’s daughter’s baby book and noticed that her grandfather's last name was the same as Sheryl's grandfather.

I could have told you they were related by looking at their medical records. They are both autoimmune disorder nightmares, with Beki fighting lupus, multiple sclerosis, and autoimmune thyroid disease, and Sheryl having the same thyroid disease, gluten intolerance, fibromyalgia, and endometriosis that up until her surgery in March had fused the majority of her pelvic organs together.

Walking the first half of the Steamtown Marathon was a test to prove that their diseases were not ruling their lives. They wanted to control their bodies and make them do something that they really were not conditioned to do.

I knew that no matter how they felt, their stubborn Italian genes would never let them quit.

The first mile flew by, the second mile was uphill, and since the course was open to traffic, miles 3 through 5 were spent on a very uneven berm that took a toll on my wife's stride. Even with the difficulty, Sheryl saw the big picture and realized that every mile we walked was 1 less mile we had to be out there.

When we got around the 10-mile mark, we all knew that we had enough leg to get to the finish line. Confidence replaced discomfort and we marched on.

Sheryl struggled, but she just held my hand and kept plugging.

We passed mile 13, joined hands, and ran the last stretch to the finish line. Thanks to Beki's husband Frank, we finished to fireworks (confetti poppers), balloons, and the 

It was the farthest the 4 of them had ever walked and the first time in a while that I went further than 4 miles. All in all, it was a good day at the office.

Post-race refreshments never tasted so good. I never saw my wife drink a cider with such gusto.

Whether it’s run or walked, a half-marathon is serious business, and anyone with that distance to his or her credit is an absolute rock star. 

A few weeks ago, I quietly lamented the passing of another Steamtown Marathon without being in it.

Walking in Rare Air

I grew up watching “Sesame Street.” I had so much fun watching the show that I didn’t even realize I was being taught.

The way Jim Henson’s Muppets interacted with each other and humans mesmerized me while I learned all about the letter and number of the day.

As a young parent, I would watch “Sesame Street” with my son, Julian. The show producers put enough adult situations into the script to hold my attention, as well.

Kermit and Grover were always my favorite characters. Watching the show as a grown-up (age-wise, anyway), their interaction in skits was the highlight for me.

Jim Henson and Frank Oz were Rowan and Martin under the stage, but they also taught tolerance.

Baby Bear had a speech impediment, and when my son was diagnosed with a similar-sounding deficit, I was grateful that at least some of his peers had been exposed to people sounding different and it not being a big deal.

In my son’s scholastic career, he never once said to me that anyone made fun of the way he talked, and I believe I have the good people at the Sesame Workshop to thank for that.

Recently, the organization announced that a new Muppet was born. Her name is Julia, and she is autistic.

It is purely by coincidence that Julia is the feminization of my son’s name, but I can’t help but feel that the connection was meant to be there.

Julia is described as a friend of Elmo who “does things differently” than most children. I looked on YouTube for a sneak peak of Julia in action, but there is none to be found.

Still, it makes me feel warm inside to know that “Sesame Street” is tackling the stigma of autism head on. Someone besides the education system has to do so.

The sooner you can acquaint a neurotypical child to an autistic child, the more comfortable it will make both of them.

Julian has done a very good job of using his abilities to do things differently, and I wish that for every autistic child. As a pharmacist, I know that some kids will be lower functioning than others, but I also believe that with services and sometimes medications (when everything else has been tried), there is room for improvement.

I believe Julia will be a very powerful tool in the fight against autism stigma. I am sure that the research on her has been done, but if I watch her and see a little room for improvement, I will let Sesame Workshop know, because I believe the knowledge of a parent of a child with high-functioning autism to be of merit.

Jay Sochoka, RPh, knows how to get to “Sesame Street.”

Recently, the organization announced that a new Muppet was born. Her name is Julia, and she is autistic. 

New Muppet Julia May Tackle Autism Stigma

 asked our readers to share their stories of why they love practicing pharmacy—and the response was overwhelming. Our editorial staff had the pleasure of reading more than 100 touching and inspiring (sometimes hilarious) stories, submitted by pharmacists from all different settings and points in their careers&mdash; from the newly graduated pharmacist entering community pharmacy to the retired pharmacist reflecting on a career as an independent, and everything in between. 

is pleased to name Jay Sochoka, BSPharm, RPh, CIP, this year’s winner for his refreshingly honest and poignant story about the turning point of his career. You can also read the amazing stories of the pharmacists who received honorable mentions at www. pharmacytimes.com/web-exclusives/ runners-up. Congratulations to all the winners and thanks to everyone who entered this first annual essay contest! 

 wish to thank all our readers for their dedication to their patients and the profession. I meet needs wherever I see them, especially if doing so will make someone’s life a little easier.

	When I began practicing pharmacy 16 years ago, I have to admit that it was not a love-at-first sight encounter. However, as with all experiences worth having, time proved a key factor in defining and reshaping my perspective. 

	I entered into pharmacy because I had a good head for science and wanted a fast paycheck—“0-$60,000 in five years” was the catch phrase on an old Philadelphia College of Pharmacy and Science fundraiser T-shirt. (It will always be PCPS to me.) I was a newly licensed, riding-in-my- 1972-Corvette, 22-year-old pharmacist with a pocket full of money…and I had the attitude to prove it.

	My preceptor (wrongly) taught me that being rude was my right. I was lawyer-like and would look for a technicality in a prescription to find the reason not to fill it. No DEA number? Sayonara. Even though I did my job well, I had no love for the profession itself. For several years, I dreaded the schedule of 12-hour days, every other weekend, and a dearth of holidays. I hated when I worked in a new store, and people openly pined the loss of their favorite pharmacist to my face. To me, at that time, every customer was a nuisance.

	Then something happened: my father became terminally ill, and I became a caregiver. I suddenly realized that I was dealing with a lot of sickness and pain on the other side of the counter. I was able to empathize with the weary, irritated, and sometimes impatient faces before me. The customers became my patients—people with actual names, feelings, and needs.

	While doing no harm was my creed for medications, such had not been the case with my attitude as a young pharmacist. My life experience completely transformed my professional demeanor. Since that defining event nearly a decade ago, my mantra has been, “Who can I help today?”

	I meet needs wherever I see them, especially if doing so will make someone’s life a little easier. You need a box of light bulbs? I’ll stop checking prescriptions (unless there is a real emergency on my hands) and take you to them myself. You’re running late from a hospital discharge, and you need medications for you or your loved one? I’ll stay open past closing time and wait for you to arrive.

	Now, a little older and a great deal wiser, I love being a community pharmacist—especially the “community” aspect of it. A positive approach has paid dividends that go beyond a paycheck. I walked into the grocery store one day and, as per usual, I met one of my patients. After a quick chat, I went on my way to shop. “That’s my pharmacist!” said the man to his girlfriend in a tone of pure pride. Tears welled up in my eyes.

	Some days, the challenges of pharmacy can leave even the most dedicated pharmacist feeling frustrated and underappreciated. In those tough moments, it can be hard to remember why you entered pharmacy in the first place—not to mention the powerful, lasting impact you have on patients every day.

Jay Sochoka, BSPharm, RPh, CIP, has been a practicing community pharmacist since 1994. He is certified as a Medication Therapy Management Specialist and is a Certified Pharmacist Immunizer. In addition to his pharmacy practice, Sochoka runs in charity fund-raisers and is the author of the book Fatman in Recovery. Sochoka resides in Pennsylvania. 

The winner of our first annual essay contest, Jay Sochoka, BSPharm, RPh, CIP, shares his story of rediscovering the impact of pharmacy practice. 