I’m the author of this story. Here’s the worst field trip experience, which gave me a permanent medical condition.

The summer before the previous story, my school district was experimenting with running its own summer program for elementary students. They’d have regular teachers also on summer break hired to run it, and it would use one of the existing schools. All children in grades one to four (ages six to eleven) who went to schools in the district would be welcome to enroll. Lunch would be provided, there would be field trips every Friday, the hours would be similar to regular school, and there would only be a nominal fee upfront. For working parents, it was a godsend.

When we got to it, it was okay. The teachers who had taken the position were the ones who worked at the school that was hosting it, which was the wealthiest of the six elementary schools in the district. Even we oblivious kids noticed that they were a little snobby to those of us from the “less desirable” schools. Groups were based on what grade we’d be in come fall, and each teacher had about thirty-five kids to watch over.

I don’t remember most of the time there, just a tie-dye project the whole “school” did (they stole my cousin’s to give to a student who went to that school during the year who was absent the day we dyed them), a pretty cool demonstration/talk from a guy with a “pet” bald eagle who did wildlife rehabilitation, and the field trip in this story.

One Friday in the middle of the summer, we were going to a semi-local resort that had a spring-fed pool with nearby streams where you could catch crawdads with your bare hands. I loved swimming at that time and was ecstatic that I could just stay in the pool the whole time. My memories of the day are hazy, with only a few clear moments. During the few times I was out of the pool, I visited the singular drinking fountain on the property to view a hummingbird guarding its nest but didn’t take many drinks. By the time we had to leave, I must have been exhausted and a little sunburnt, but I was satisfied. I don’t think I was on the bus I came in on, but my cousin helped me onto his bus, and those teachers must have decided to just let me be since his bus was split between our age groups anyway and notified my bus so the whole caravan of three or four buses could head off.

It was an hour ride home, and fifteen minutes in, I started vomiting uncontrollably. Thankfully, I had just collapsed onto the first seat, and the driver had a real garbage bin onboard. The air conditioning was either broken or non-existent, there were no extra bottles of water, and I wouldn’t have been able to keep it down at that point anyway. I was only seven and didn’t know what was happening, I was scared I would die, and I started crying into the trash bin.

My six-year-old cousin did his best to comfort me by giving me what was left of his water bottle, rubbing my back, and asking the teachers for help. They didn’t do anything except comfort the other six-year-olds who started crying because my condition scared them, and then eventually have everyone move back so there was an empty buffer seat between me and my cousin and everyone else.

Once we got back to the pick-up site, I was puking less but still sort of crying. There, we met with my older brother coming off his bus, and we waited for our dad to pick us up, which I’m told was thankfully faster than usual. I’m pretty sure I remember my brother and cousin getting me to sit in the shade of a tree on my towel and one of them staying with me while the other got my dad to help me into the car when he arrived. My last clear memory of this day is crying while apologizing as I started puking again in my dad’s back seat.

Apparently, I was still semi-lucid so my dad just immediately took me home. There, he set me up on his bed with the ceiling fan on high and our air conditioning turned up, kept alternating cold wet cloths on my forehead, and tried to get me to keep down drinks. I hadn’t gotten better by the time my mom got home, about an hour after we did, so they made the decision to get me to the hospital. There, apparently, I had an IV to help rehydrate me and get my core temperature down, and I was released later that night because I had been alert and conscious the whole time.

My parents spent the next week taking turns taking us kids to their workplaces (they both had offices, thankfully). Then, they decided to have my grandma watch us with our cousin before they could get us into the daycare they used during the school year for the last few weeks of summer.

From my point of view, I passed out in my dad’s back seat and then woke up from a nap in my grandma’s bed. I was a little confused but knew I was in a safe place. More importantly, I knew my aunt and uncle who lived with my grandma had treats in the freezer, so I went out to the living room to ask if I could have a Fudgesicle. I forgot about the confusion by the time my parents got us, and it didn’t come up again until I was almost an adult.

At no point during or after were my parents ever contacted by anyone at the summer program. The school even tried to get them to reconsider when my parents called to unenroll me and my brother.

I had a heat stroke on that field trip, and ever since, I have had to be very careful about my body temperature and can’t take much direct sunlight. On bad days, just washing my hair with hot water can make me overheat and leave me exhausted for hours. It also took a few years for my long-term memory to recover and develop properly, but I think it’s more or less normal now after puberty.

Related:
Having Flashbacks To The SkiFree Monster

I am at a psychiatrist’s office receiving transcranial magnetic stimulation (TMS) therapy for depression. A TMS technician is making small talk during the prep for my appointment.

Tech: “So what do you do for work?”

Me: “I’m a software engineer.”

Tech: “Another one?!” 

As it turned out, she said about 40% of their TMS patients were software engineers. I wonder why…

A bickering couple comes up to me as I am working behind the counter.

Male Customer: “Excuse me, but are you a Mormon?”

Me: “Uh… yes?”

Male Customer: “Excellent! We finally found one! Can you please tell my wife you’re allowed to have as many wives as you want?”

Me: “That’s… not true. We only take one wife.”

Female Customer: “Hah! See?! I told you!”

Male Customer: “Huh… I always thought Mormons were allowed multiple wives.”

Me: “It’s a common misconception, sir.”

Male Customer: “Well then, what’s the point of all that missionary stuff you’ve all gotta do if not to find yourselves some decent wives?”

Me: “It’s purely to preach, sir.”

Male Customer: “What a waste of time!”

Female Customer: “Don’t mind him. He’s just bored every Sunday at church and is feeling around for other options…”

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I work in a grocery store that sells propane tanks. On the cage itself, in big letters, it advises customers to leave their tank either in their car or outside and DO NOT bring it into the store (because explosive). Unfortunately, our propane cage is on the far side of the outside and a bit out of the way, so a lot of people don’t actually SEE the sign until I help with the exchange. It leads to a lot of people dragging their highly explosive tanks inside the store with them.

Most people are understanding when I explain the rules and ask them to please take their tank outside, even just set it outside the door and come back to pay, but sometimes people get a bit difficult.

One night, I’m working, and a young man (late twenties if I had to guess) comes in to do an exchange, dragging his tank inside with him.

Me: “Oh, sorry, sir, but for safety reasons, we don’t allow the propane tanks inside. You could just leave it out the door for a moment, if you’d like?”

Apparently, this is the wrong thing to ask, because the man proceeds to glare at me.

Customer: “Now listen here, missy. I know all about tanks like this. They aren’t dangerous! That’s just propaganda! Now, oxygen tanks! Those’ll kill you dead. Worked with those for a while. Explode at the drop of a hat. But these bad boys?” *Smacks his tank* “Nah, they’re not dangerous.”

Me: “…well, regardless, our store has rules about them being inside. Can you please take it outside so we can finish the transaction?

The man sighs heavily and drags his tank outside. I just look at my manager in shock.

Me: “I don’t particularly care how much experience he has. Leave your explode-y tank outside, for f***s sake. I don’t care what’s in it!” 

Thankfully, there was no further incident. Though I did get treated to another lecture about how “not dangerous” propane tanks really were when I had to go out and do the exchange for him — in front of the big 5×4 sign on the cages indicating the various dangers.

In elementary school, we had a field trip to the local ski resort near the end of the school year to do a quick nature hike and see the local flora, fauna, and rock types we’d spent all year learning about. We’d hike up about half a mile under the ski lift and then ride the lift down to a bagged school lunch. The school and the resort had worked together to schedule it so that two employees could help out with the lift controls on the same day as one of their off-season inspections.

Our teacher was only a few years from retirement and stayed at the starting line with the bus driver, so the only adult actually at the top of the slope was one resort employee who didn’t know any of us and rode up rather than hike it with us. My friend and I took extra time at the top, looking at interesting rocks and plants around the upper control shack, until we saw the lift attendant on a lift bench going down. We hurried over and got on several seats behind her.

Unfortunately, she didn’t see us, and nobody did any head counts when handing out lunches. My friend and I watched our classmates eat and the two resort employees were given what we later figured were our lunches, assumed to be extras. We were at least fifty feet above the ground below us and far enough away that we couldn’t hear them, and they couldn’t hear us shouting. We didn’t panic as we laughed and joked between shouts, sure that nothing bad could happen to us children and someone would look up any minute.

We were hoarse and finally realizing that this was a serious situation as we watched our classmates get herded in the direction of the bus. We would have started crying, but we were already dehydrated before the lift stopped; we weren’t allowed to bring water to the hike because there wouldn’t be bathrooms. Thankfully, the wind was pretty light and there were no clouds, so we weren’t getting too cold, but we were getting sunburned.

Several minutes later, our teacher and bus driver came hustling around the building and looked around, still not looking up. We waved as much as we could without shaking the lift too much. We were saved! Well, we would be in a couple more minutes after the bus driver tracked down one of the employees to help look and that adult finally looked up.

We got down, and the adults were apologizing to each other frantically and occasionally asking if we were okay. We said we were hungry, thirsty, and tired. We were taken to a water spigot for landscaping nearby to get a few sips before getting ushered onto the bus so everyone wasn’t late getting back.

On the bus, there were some watermelon slices for the trip back, enough for everyone to have one with some left over. We got the bags with all the leftovers after the other thirty kids got their slices. (A couple of our classmates did kindly give up their slices so we could have more.) I could only choke down one slice because watermelon tastes like wet dust to me, but at least it helped my friend.

I don’t remember much from the rest of the day due to the exhaustion. The bus must have gotten back in time for the school day to end, and I went to my usual after-school care where I probably napped. I assumed my parents were called by the school at some point and the situation was explained, and if they weren’t mad about it, I wouldn’t kick up a fuss since I was safe in the end. They were livid with the adults in the situation when they first heard this story twenty years after the fact.

It’s not even the worst field trip negligence story I earned in that school district. It was also not the only time my parents were belatedly angry on my behalf about things I thought they knew about that happened at that school.