(I work in the kitchen of a small hospital. I go to each room and take the patients’ orders for their meals. One new patient is a woman who is on a diabetic diet.)

Patient: *after ordering a huge meal, including iced tea with “a crapload of sugar”* “…and can my brother order something, too?”

Me: “Sure. It’s $5.40 for a guest tray, and you can order whatever you want.”

Patient: “Wait, you mean he can get all the food he wants for $5.40? Holy crap! This is the best hospital ever.”

(The patient’s brother orders a large meal, including a diet soda.)

Me: “All right. Now, since you’re on a diabetic diet, we’ll probably have to cut some of this out, because the rules say we can only give you so many carbs.”

Patient: “Whatever. I eat what I want.”

Me: “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

(We end up sending her about half of what she ordered, and using artificial sweetener instead of sugar.)

Patient: *calling back after getting her food* “Um, I didn’t get all my food.”

Me: “Since you’re on a diabetic diet, we can only send you that much. Sorry.”

Patient: “Well, my brother didn’t get what he ordered, either. He was supposed to get…” *she proceeds to list the things she didn’t get*

Me: *after a bit of futilely trying to reason with her* “All right. I can bring a little more food to him.”

(The cook lets me bring some more food to the brother.)

Me: “I’d like to see him put sugar in his diet soda.”

Related:
What A Diabeetus, Part 2
What A Diabeetus

(I’m a dentistry student. At my university, we work in different services every half-day. Thursday morning is when I work with kids. A dad comes in with his two-year-old. The kid starts crying the moment he sees the dentist chair, and I know I’m not going to be able to do anything on him, because putting rotating metal things in the mouth of an uncooperative and squirmy two-year-old is dangerous for both him and me. In the patient’s file, I see that the dad was supposed to have taken an appointment with a teacher to have his kid sedated. He obviously hasn’t done so, because I’m the one taking care of him. I can’t even get a good look at the kid’s teeth, because he won’t open his mouth and he keeps crying. I tell the dad that he absolutely needs an appointment with sedation, or else we won’t be able to take care of his kid.)

Dad: “But they’re only baby teeth; it doesn’t matter if they have cavities!”

Me: “If the infection gets out of hand, the adult teeth could get infected, as well, and come out black and rotten. Not to mention that the bone could be eaten away by the bacteria.”

Dad: “So, what should I do?”

Me: “I can’t do anything right now with him in this state, but with sedation we could try it. He needs to be on an empty stomach, though.”

Dad: “Why?”

Me: “Because if not, he could throw up and drown himself.”

Dad: “Sure, but I come from [City not even 15 minutes away]; I don’t have time for this!”

(I call my professor to examine the child, and together we manage to put a temporary solution on the kid’s teeth. It involves a lot of crying and screaming, with an uncooperative dad that doesn’t want to hold his child, and keeps interrupting us to “go for a walk in the hallway” with his kid.)

Me: “Well, that should slow the cavities down, but keep brushing his teeth regularly.”

Dad: “Oh, he doesn’t brush his teeth.”

Me: “I know. He’s two; you’re supposed to do it.”

Dad: “Well, I don’t.”

Me: “You’re supposed to. I don’t suppose he dresses himself yet, either, but still, he’s not naked now. Same thing: you’re the one who made him, so you’re the one who should brush his teeth until he’s old enough to do it himself.”

(A woman comes up to our night cashier.)

Customer: “I need assistance at the pharmacy case.”

(The cashier pages me to the pharmacy case, as I’m the only one with the key after the pharmacist leaves. I arrive at the case.)

Me: “What items do you need?”

Customer: *hesitates for a moment* “I need condoms.”

Me: *opens the case* “You’re welcome to pick out any of the boxes that you’d like.”

(She picks up a few different boxes, shakes each one, then sets it back down. Then, she turns to me and asks:)

Customer: “Do you know which one of these feels the best for guys?”

Me: *more confused than surprised by the question* “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I can’t help you there.”

Customer: “Do you know which one fits best, then?”

Me: “I can’t help you with that. I’ve never used any of those.”

Customer: *exasperated sigh* “Oh, well. Better safe than sorry.”

(She put the condoms down, grabbed a pregnancy test, and walked away without another word.)

(Our office occupies the bottom two floors of the building. There is a medical office on the fourth floor which is accessed by an elevator in the main lobby. Recently, there has been construction in front of the building’s main door, but pedestrians can still access the door. I am in a meeting when I am called to one of our side entrances to deal with an irate couple, a man and a woman.)

Me: “Can I help you?”

(I see that the woman is walking with a cane.)

Woman: “I want you to let me in so I can get to the elevator. I have an appointment!”

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but this is not [Medical Facility]. We can’t let you in because this area is restricted. If you want, I can walk you over to the main entrance and you can use the elevators there.”

Woman: “I can’t walk that far!”

(A coworker arrives at this time.)

Coworker: “It’s the same distance, either way. We can’t let you in.”

Man: “Well, we can’t go that way because of the construction! Unless you want to carry her, or you have a wheelchair, we need to get in this way!”

Me: “I’m sorry, but we can’t do that. You can get around the construction; I promise.”

(This goes on for several minutes. After a while, the woman goes to use a phone that’s near the door.)

Woman: “Give me the number for [Doctor]!”

Coworker: “Ma’am, that phone connects to the office I just came from. We aren’t [Medical Facility]. We don’t have the number.”

Man: “Do you have any wheelchairs?”

Me: “No, we don’t.”

(The two finally leave, but not before…)

Woman: “You need to figure out how to handle cases like this better!”

Me: “You have my deepest apologies, ma’am.”

Woman: “What good’s that going to do me?!”

(They walk outside, leaving my coworker and me behind.)

Me: “They seriously want us to stock wheelchairs for people who can’t be bothered to use the main entrance?”

(After a change in my insurance, I have to switch doctors. On my first exam, he stares long and hard at a small patch of pink skin on my stomach that my previous doctor dismissed as nothing.)

Doctor: “How long have you had that bright pink spot on your stomach?”

Me: “Three or four years.”

Doctor: “Have you ever had a dermatologist examine it?”

Me: “No, I didn’t think it was anything serious. My GP said it was probably nothing.”

Doctor: “Well, I think it’s probably a basal cell carcinoma. That’s a slow-growing cancer, but if it’s been left alone for years, we need to remove it ASAP. Let me call our dermatologist.”

(The dermatologist confirmed his suspicions, and a growth the size of an apple was cut out of my stomach later that week. It hadn’t spread anywhere, thankfully. Good thing for me I had to change doctors!)