Yakkan Shoumei

Dear Pharmecutical Inspector,
I really do need to bring all those meds into Japan with me. I can certainly empathize as to why you are so strict on your customs regulations, especially when it comes to medicinal purposes. But the truth of that matter is, you care causing me a great amount of undue stress and have me literally pining to hold the Yakkan Shoumei in my trembling hands. So the sooner you can get it to me, the bigger the hug I will give you.
Best regards,
Me

Ah, the Yakkan Shoumei, the current bane of my existence. I have spent countless hours lost in the throws of worry and stress due to this painfully critical document that I absolutely must obtain. A quest of the highest priority. And not one of those side quests that don't really contribute to the overall story. No, this quest is the kind that if not defeated, means I might not make it to Japan.

So what exactly is this document I'm rattling on about? Allow me to rattle on some more.

I received an email from my Japanese employee recruiters informing me that if I planned on bringing any medication into the country, I first had to apply for permission. Being a Type I diabetic, I fully intend on bringing meds into Japan. Lots of them. Thus I learned about the Yakkan Shoumei, basically a permission slip that I show to the customs officer to prove that my luggage chocked full of insulin and needles is legit and I'm not some diabetic drug dealer.

It makes sense that I would require an official document to bring a year's supply of insulin necessities. In the past I've carried a letter around with me whenever I traveled, a little thing signed by my doctor declaring that the box strapped to my pocket is an actual medical device and not some jacked-up pager. But that letter wouldn't cut it this time, not for the sheer volume of medicine I would have to bring.

However, the application for the Yakkan Shoumei is the most involved bit of paperwork I've ever had the pleasure of cursing filling out. In fact, it required a two hour appointment at my doctor's office as several nurses stared in bafflement at the forms before them. We managed to create quite the novella of detailed information by the time we were done and our pens dried up.

I thought the hardest part was over. How could it not be? I had memorized half of the the Physician's Desk Reference guide (an impressive feat, considering the volume consists of 3500 pages of drug descriptions and sells for $52.45 on Amazon). No, the adventure was not over. There was still another hurdle looming in my path.

The Postal Service.

But we'll leave that story for another day.