We had a customer come in with two vials of ibuprofen tablets, and she asked to speak to the pharmacist. She refused to say anything to me (a tech) about what was going on besides “these pills are wrong,” but luckily for her, it was a slow night and the pharmacist was available. Since our space is very small, I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation.

Customer: “I’ve been taking this 800-mg dosage for over ten years. This last batch you gave me made me feel funny. I gave some to my husband and my cousin, and they agreed it made them feel funny, too!”

At this point, my jaw had dropped and I hid behind my computer screen. The pharmacist was staring at her.

Customer: “My cousin takes the same strength ibuprofen but uses [Other Chain], so she’d know. [Other Chain]’s pharmacist told her that the manufacturer of her pills had experimented with adding hydrocodone to ibuprofen. She immediately informed me about it. So, you guys gave me hydrocodone ibuprofen!”

This was one of our pharmacist’s last days on the job, as he was retiring, so I think he was a little more willing to just openly stare at this woman, and I can’t say I blame him. To appease the customers worry — as she was not aggressive or upset, just very convinced that she’d just been given hydrocodone — the pharmacist and I looked up this information, as well as her NDC (National Drug Code). Not only was this not the NDC that had said experiment, but said experiment was also definitely not released to consumers without their knowledge or consent. 

The customer went back and forth with the pharmacist, insisting that we give her an exchange for the “IP377 ones!” Those had been discontinued. We knew she wasn’t searching for free pills as she had the drug disposal bin drawer open, about to throw the old ones in so she could get her “normal ibuprofens”. 

Forty-five minutes later, the customer realized that the pills looked (and apparently felt?) different because she had picked them up from [Other Chain] while on vacation. With a quick thanks, she went off, presumably to demand that [Other Chain] exchange her hydrocodone pills.

I don’t think any of my coworkers believe me when I tell this story, and I can’t blame them. Imagine! Free hydrocodone!

Props to the lady, though; she stepped out of the way for any customers that came by and was never rude or insistent to me or the pharmacist. I’d rather have this very strange complaint from this type of person rather than an easy case with a rude customer!

It’s 1990. I am a relatively new corpsman (medic) assigned to a surgery ward at the Naval Hospital. Our patients are all post-op and there are sixty beds. There are six or so corpsmen assigned to take care of these patients. As part of our duties, we are to chart our findings and observations as we make our rounds.

This surgery ward is usually the first assignment for corpsmen and nurses coming fresh from school. I joined the Navy at twenty-one, so I am a little more worldwise than my peers who are all eighteen or nineteen. I know, especially in the military, there is the book way of doing things and the effective way of doing things. We have volumes of manuals that cover every aspect of our jobs and duties that you could imagine.

Cue the new nurse who has been assigned and wants to show how good she is at managing the lowly corpsman troops. She is merciless, always looking for opportunities to embarrass or cause trouble for us.

One evening, I observe her shouting at one of the corpsmen for using an unapproved abbreviation in a patient’s chart. What is the offensive abbreviation? “ASAP.” He wrote that the patient needed an evaluation ASAP. You would have thought that he had personally offended [Nurse]’s honor.

I go and look in the approved abbreviations section of our operations manual to confirm that it is not there. It is not. I do find that there is a very extensive list of approved abbreviations available to use, though.

Cue malicious compliance.

I pull all of the corpsmen on the shift and tell them to bring their charts to the break room. We then chart all of the notes together using nothing but approved abbreviations. The notes look like another language! I make sure everyone can read their own notes and send them out to put the charts back.

The pain-in-the-butt nurse comes in to review the notes with the corpsmen. I take the first round. This is done while standing at patients’ bedsides. She opens the chart and looks at the notes.

Nurse: “WHAT IS THIS?!”

Me: “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

Nurse: “I don’t understand anything you have written.”

Me: “It says that the patient is recovering well with little difficulty, but he will need further evaluation based on his comments and visible demonstration of discomfort and reduced mobility in his left upper limb.”

Nurse: “That is not what it says.”

Me: “Ma’am, I assure you that it does and that those are all approved abbreviations. I am sorry that you do not know them. I do realize that you are new.”

I smiled. She did not. This was the first of sixty charts she had to review.

I have never seen corpsmen so eager to review chart notes. We did go get the manual for her, just to be helpful.

I work as a doctor in a psychiatric hospital. Sometimes patients get administered to our hospital against their will because, due to their illness, they’ve become a danger to themselves or others. It’s important to know that despite this, we are a normal hospital and have no security. Since we all have extensive training and experience in de-escalation, everything usually goes peacefully, but there are a few exceptions.

This is one of my most memorable ones.

I’m on the night shift and am responsible for all inbound calls.

Caller: “Hello, this is [Prison]. I’m calling to inform you that we’re going to send you a patient in approximately thirty minutes.”

Me: “…what?”

This is not something we do. At all. While we do sometimes treat patients that have become violent, that is legally only possible if they don’t have a prison sentence. If they do, they will either be treated at a prison hospital or at a forensic psychiatric hospital. 

Caller: “Yeah, he just arrived here, and our prison doctor said he can’t examine him because he’s too violent.”

Me: “What?!”

Caller: “I know. I’m sorry.”

Me: “You’re aware that we have no security, right? “

Caller: “Yes.”

Me: “And you still want to send him here? From a prison, where you have guards and everything?”

Caller: “I’m sorry, I really am. It’s ridiculous. But that’s what our doctor says. He won’t examine him because he’s afraid the patient will harm him.”

Me: “And it’s okay if he harms me or the nurses?”

Caller: “I’d rather not answer that. Anyway, we’ll be there soon.”

While they’re on the way to our hospital, I call the senior physician on duty. There’s a bit of back and forth that ends with the conclusion that, apparently, the prison doctor can pull a few strings that make this whole thing legal.

Then, the patient arrives. Strangely enough, at first, he seems entirely peaceful. The police lead him into the examination room.

Me: “Hello, you must be [Patient]. My name is [My Name]. How are you?”

Patient: “Gimme my stuff.”

Me: “I’m sorry, I don’t have your stuff. The policemen might have brought some of your things, though.”

Patient: “No, my stuff! My drugs!”

Policeman: *Cheerily* “Yeah, we told him that since you’re also a withdrawal clinic, you would give him methadone and everything!”

Patient: “Yeah, I want [long list of addictive medications in very high doses].”

Policeman: “Well, he’s all yours now! Have a good night, everyone!”

And before I could say another word, the police were gone.

While, technically, we had everything the guy wanted, this was NOT how it worked. There was no way I could give a potentially lethal dose of drugs to an unknown patient. Instead, he’d be monitored closely and get medication according to his symptoms. This way, the withdrawal wouldn’t be pleasant but as safe as possible.

Luckily, I had the foresight not to tell him this immediately. Instead, I asked two huge male nurses to accompany me and a third one to stand by the door, just in case. From a safe distance, I informed the patient of our planned treatment. Before I could even finish, he threw a table at us. We hightailed out of there as fast as possible and the third nurse locked the door behind us.

While we called the police — seriously, I have no idea why they even left in the first place; it’s not like this wasn’t totally predictable — we could watch through a window as the patient wrecked the entire examination room. We didn’t watch for long, though, because he tried to break the window to get to us.

When the police finally arrived, they acted as if it was my fault for not just giving the guy what he wanted.

I got the last laugh, though, because they ended up having to watch the patient for the rest of the night while he received treatment as planned, and I was able to go to sleep.

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

My wife has a rather large benign brain tumor successfully removed at [Medical Center]. About a week later, while still in the medical center, a staff doctor says a PEG (abdominal feeding tube) needs to be put in because when she goes for in-house rehab, they won’t want to be concerned with swallowing and eating.

To insert the PEG, the abdomen is inflated with air to find a good field. The PEG can’t be inserted and the surgeon has to abandon the attempt. Now my wife has an inflated abdomen such that it looks like she is pregnant with a fifty-pound kid. As long as she lies flat, she is fine.

Later in the day, in come the surgeon and another surgeon, and they commence to argue about who has dibs on exploratory.

Surgeon #1: *To me* “My equipment is too small to cause the air to leak out into the abdomen. This has to be a perforated bowel, and I need to find it.”

Surgeon #2: *To [Surgeon #1]* “This is out of your hands now. It’s my call.” *Turns to me* “I am an aggressive surgeon, and I need to go in and find the perforation. We need to get to this tonight.”

Me: “I have to sign off for any surgery, right? Well, I’m not signing off for any more surgery. This is not a perforated bowel.”

Surgeon #2: “And just where did you get your medical degree?”

Me: “That doesn’t matter. I’m not signing off for any surgery.”

An hour later, in comes yet another doctor. She tells me she has been told about my decision and asks me to explain.

Me: “I had a classmate in high school who had a perforated bowel. Within a few hours, he spiked an over 106 fever and was in so much pain he wanted to be run over by a bus. Look at the monitor. Her breathing is above the number set for her vent tube. Her temp is 98.8 and her blood pressure is 125 over 79. This is not a perforated bowel.”

New Doctor: “I agree with you. This can only be free air and, as such, it will take several days to leave her body, but she will be fine. She just won’t be very comfortable sitting up in a chair yet.”

Not long after, [Surgeon #1] comes in.

Surgeon #1: “We’re not sure yet if this is a perforated bowel, so we are going to put a twenty-four-hour watch on this.”

Me: “You can put a twenty-four-day watch on this for all I care. I’m not signing off.”

Surgeon #1: “Well, we will see about that.”

Me: *As he leaves her room* “No, we won’t.”

The next day, [Surgeon #1] proclaimed it to be free air and that was the end of the exploratory discussion.

I work in a clinic as a medical assistant — the person who gets you from the waiting room and gets you ready for the provider.

I go out to the waiting room to grab my next patient, someone who is new to me. (Obviously, all names and patient information are changed for privacy.)

Me: “Tiffany?”

A woman gives me a funny look but then gets up and comes with me. I take her weight and get her into the exam room, but something isn’t sitting right, so I do my due diligence and decide to check I have the right patient.

Me: “Could you please verify your last name and date of birth for me?”

She gives me another funny look.

Patient: “Smith. December 2, 1964.”

Me: “Oh, shoot. It looks like I grabbed the wrong Tiffany.”

Patient: “I’m not Tiffany; I’m Sandra.”

Me: “Well, let’s get you back into the waiting room and [Coworker] will grab you very soon.”