(It’s Memorial Day, and my pharmacy is one of the few within a twenty-mile radius that is open. My coworker is on break and I am managing the front of the pharmacy.)

Me: “Hi, sir. How I can help you today?”

Customer: “I’m here to pick up two prescriptions for [Customer].”

Me: “All right, sir, it looks like I have one prescription ready for you, but the other prescription — your [Prescription] — we’re still waiting to hear back from your doctor for more refills.”

Customer: “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THEY’RE NOT DONE?!”

Me: “There is one prescription done and ready for you to pick up, sir. The other prescription you requested — [Prescription] — isn’t, because we haven’t heard back from your doctor yet.”

Customer: “I HATE THIS PLACE! YOU GUYS NEVER HAVE ANYTHING DONE! I BROUGHT TWO PRESCRIPTIONS IN ON FRIDAY, AND YOU’RE TELLING ME THEY’RE STILL NOT DONE?!”

Me: “Sir, I have one prescription ready for you right now.” *pause* “The other one is still waiting on your doctor for approval, and since it’s Memorial Day, we may not hear back from your doctor until tomorrow.”

Customer: “You guys are horrible! You never have anything done for me! I hate it here!” *walks off*

(After he walked away, I looked back at the screen to see when he brought in the prescriptions. And turns out, he brought them in yesterday, not Friday. But either way, we still had one he could have taken home with him.)

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Doctor: “How did the new medications work for you?”

Patient: “I’m still waiting for them! The pharmacy still hasn’t called to let me know they are ready to pick up!”

Doctor: “Did the insurance deny the medications?”

Patient: “No, I didn’t hear any response from the insurance yet, either!”

Doctor: “Really? Which pharmacy did you take the prescription to? I can give them a call to check on this.”

Patient: “Oh, I never took it to the pharmacy. I still have the prescription here in my wallet!”

CONTENT WARNING: This story contains content of a medical nature. It is not intended as medical advice.

(My 26-year-old sister has had problems with endometriosis for five years. She is on medications that she hates, and has thousands of dollars worth of medical bills as a result. She doesn’t want children, and has decided to have her uterus removed, with the support of her therapist, OBGYN, and our family. Because she has never had children, they will have to do the surgery like a C-section, which will have a six-week recovery time, and she cannot take that much time off of work. Her OBGYN recommends her to another doctor who uses robotic-assisted equipment, so she will have a shorter recovery period. She goes to meet with the other OBGYN. The nurse is taking her history, and you can see the judgement on her face. A few minutes later, the OBGYN comes in.)

OB: “I’m not going to try to talk you out of it… Okay, I am. You are very young to have this procedure, and many women who are younger than 30 end up regretting the surgery once it is complete. And you aren’t married; your future husband might want children.”

(He keeps repeating that he isn’t trying to talk her out of it before contradicting himself as he goes on to suggest several other medications — most of which she’s already tried — that caused her to gain weight, suffer severe anxiety and depression, and give her suicidal thoughts. She is extremely sensitive to side effects. Finally, the doctor suggests another medication she hasn’t tried, but has side effects she has suffered before.)

Sister: “No, but I have researched it, and I don’t like the side effects.”

OB: *pointing at nurse* “She’s been on it for eight years, and she’s just fine.”

Mom: “She would rather be an aunt. She has never had any desire to have children, and she is tired of being in pain.”

(It seemed like once he knew my sister had my mother’s approval, he realized he was fighting a losing game. He sighed and gave up, and told us how they would do the procedure, and that they would get in touch with her insurance. Later, my sister told me that she believed the doctor would have flat-out refused to do the surgery if my mother hadn’t been there to back her up, and two weeks after the appointment, she called to check up on what her insurance could do, only to be told they hadn’t even contacted them yet.)

Patient: “I’ve been waiting for a half hour. I am in severe pain and need treatment urgently!”

Doctor: “I’m sorry about that. I want to get you treated as quickly as possible. Let’s walk over right now to the Physical Therapy department. Chiropractic treatments have worked well for you in the past, and we can set you up for some chiropractic treatments right now.”

Patient: “Oh, no, I can’t do that. I am leaving on a vacation cruise for a month. I’ll call to schedule when I get back.”

At some point when I was a kid, my father got the bright idea of using me for weight-bearing massage “treatments” by having me walk about on his back barefoot while he was lying on the floor. Mom usually gave me a hand to keep me stable. I have no clue if it ever worked to actually help with anything, but he kept periodically having me do it. When I was little I still thought it was fun.

His back seemed to gradually get worse as I grew older: lower spine problems. He mostly stopped having me do the walking massages as I aged into my teens.

Then one day when I was 17, when I hadn’t done it in several years, he seemed to be having some particularly bad back pains, and decided to have me stand on his back again. For some reason he was just absolutely convinced it would magically cure him, and somehow managed to rope Mom into agreeing with this. The problem is that at this point I weighed about 115 pounds — only about 15 pounds less than him — and could tell this was a terrible idea.

I refused. He insisted. I refused again and protested, pointing it out as being foolish and dangerous at my weight relative to his — he is a man of very slight and narrow build. He called me ridiculous. He and Mom both kept insisting, urging, and nagging me, and telling me I was being ridiculous. “Nothing will happen!” “Come on, it’s just a few minutes!” “Just stand on his back for a bit!” “Come on! Just help out your dad!” “It has to be you; there’s no one else, and you still weigh a lot less than Mom!”

After much protesting from me and nonstop insistence and urging — from Mom in particular, who’s always been very good at managing to bully me into doing just about anything against my will — I gave in, despite my better judgment. I very shakily stepped up on Dad’s bare back. His skin was sliding around sickeningly on his back under my feet. I nearly fell off right away, despite Mom doing her best to hold me up there, barely managing to stabilize me with her own entire weight. Meanwhile, he was very impatiently urging me to quit hesitating and being a coward, and get on with it already.

When I finally managed to stand on him properly, putting my entire weight on his back, he grunted alarmingly. Very alarmingly. And then he went abruptly very quiet. After maybe a couple of steps on him, Mom helped me get back off. Then, there were some very pointed, meaningful and alarmed looks between the two of them, but they didn’t actually say anything. I took this to mean I could finally escape the living room. Frankly, I just didn’t much care what was going on as long as I was no longer forced to participate.

There was a quiet commotion behind my back and for the rest of the day, I kind of made a point not to ask any questions for fear of being made to take part in some other poorly-thought-out treatment.

Though they’d never included me in important family concerns or given me any details about dad’s health problems, the general state of things became obvious to me in the next couple of days. What they’d made me do was indeed — Surprise! Surprise! — an incredibly terrible idea. Clearly I was too heavy, and it damaged his back even further. It was pretty severe, as far as I could tell, based the fact that he’d been forced to stay home from work for the next full week while spending pretty much all his time lying flat on the floor, except for occasional doctor’s appointments that Mom somehow had to find a way to cart him to.

Despite knowing it was stupid, I still felt guilty about what happened.

They didn’t say anything to me beyond a vague statement that Dad’s back had gotten worse — as if it was actually even possible to pretend that this had no relation with what they’d made me do. But there was never any hint of admitting that they’d done something foolish or that I’d been right. Unsurprisingly, in the following years, it became clear that Dad’s back was significantly damaged forever after this incident.

Lesson to be learned here: once in a while a teenager really does turn out to be smarter and have more basic common sense than both parents put together.