I am a community pharmacist in the UK for a chain. As most people will be aware, the UK has certain rules and regulations, especially when it comes to controlled drugs.

An American tourist comes into my shop one day, goes up to the cashier, and asks to speak with the pharmacist. He’s directed to me.

Tourist: “Do you have [controlled drug] in stock?”

Me: *Politely* “I’m sorry, but I can’t give you that without a valid prescription.”

Tourist: “Why not? It’s not a controlled drug.”

Me: “Well, it is over here.”

Tourist: “Listen, I’m a practicing doctor. I’ve been in this job for thirty years. So, would you please go into the back and get me what I came for?”

Me: “Look, I understand you may be a doctor in your own country, but I still can’t give you [drug] without a valid prescription.”

The guy stamps his foot and grunts. He then proceeds to pull out a prescription pad from his backpack and starts writing. Yes, this is no joke. This guy actually brings his prescription pad from his surgery on holiday with him. I honestly find it hard not to laugh. He slaps the prescription down on the counter.

Tourist: “There. That’s the prescription, I’m the prescribing doctor.”

He then proceeds to pull out his licence. I take one look at it and tell him:

Me: “This has no standing here. That is a prescription from a clinic in America. You will need a valid one from a general practitioner in the UK.”

Tourist: “Oh, for God’s sake, this is ridiculous. I’m a doctor. You can see that.”

Me: “You may be a doctor. I’m not denying that. I’m just telling you that I cannot accept this prescription legally.”

Tourist: “Why are you doing this?”

Me: “Because I could lose my job for prescribing a controlled drug without a valid prescription. If you can get a valid prescription from a GP over here, I’d be—”

Tourist: “What’s your name?”

I give him my name.

Tourist: “Right. You listen to me. You prescribe me the medication, or I will ensure that you lose your job.”

Again, I try not to laugh.

Me: “Sir, you can complain to the GPC [General Pharmaceutical Council] about me all you like. I’ll even give you the number of my company’s head office. But they will tell you the exact same thing I have repeatedly told you. You need a valid prescription from a UK GP. I am not prepared to break the law.”

He took a business card for our head office and storms out. Later that week, the other pharmacy in town told me that the man also went into their shop that same day and handed over his prescription, and he was also refused, making similar threats.

When I was a kid, my parents took my brother and me to the same pediatric practice for years. The doctors and nurses were (generally) very good, and since we’d been going there since I was in preschool, they all knew us like family. They also all knew that I never ran a fever (still don’t) and I had an absurdly high pain tolerance.

One day when I was in junior high school, I felt like I had gas, only I couldn’t pass it. The pressure came and went over the next few days, then became constant, and then got worse. Mom took me to the doctor’s office, but for some reason (I think everyone else was at a conference or something) the only one available to see me for the next few days was a new doctor who’d just joined the practice. [New Doctor] did a thorough examination, proclaimed that it was just gas, and told Mom and me how to deal with it.

The next day, the pressure was still there and had turned into pain. Mom took me back, and [New Doctor] looked at me again, and again he proclaimed that it was gas. Mom was worried that it might be appendicitis, but [New Doctor] dismissed that out of hand since I wasn’t running a fever and wasn’t in that much pain. Despite Mom’s insistence that I never run a fever and have an incredible pain tolerance (and one of the nurses backing her up), he insisted and sent us on our way.

The next day, the pain was worse, to the point where I couldn’t go to school. Mom dragged me back to the doctor’s office, and again [New Doctor] dismissed the possibility that it was appendicitis and actually accused me of faking to get out of school. Needless to say, Mom was pissed.

The day after that, I was in so much pain that I was having a hard time walking and couldn’t really stand up straight. Mom called the practice and demanded that someone other than [New Doctor] see me. The nurse practitioner agreed to come in even though it was her day off and examine me.

We got to the office, and [Nurse Practitioner] took one look at me — I don’t think she even had me get on the exam bench — and told Mom to drive me to the local emergency room immediately.

Mom did so, the ER doctors brought me back to an exam room and did a little poking and prodding around my abdomen, did an X-ray or CAT Scan (I think — this is pushing twenty-five years ago now), and then scheduled me for emergency surgery.

Mom and [Nurse Practitioner] were right: it was appendicitis. My surgeon said that my appendix had been perforated and, if they hadn’t bumped my surgery up to earlier in the day, would have ruptured completely. I was less than an hour away from indescribable agony and severe medical complications.

[New Doctor] adamantly refused to believe it had been appendicitis since I hadn’t been running a fever and had never been doubled over in agony, even after being shown my updated medical records. Nobody at that practice let him live the incident down, and from what I remember, he moved to a different practice shortly thereafter.

This was over twenty-five years ago. I remember I was having a lot of joint pain, especially in my foot. I was a young person, maybe six years old, so we thought it might be growing pains, but for whatever reason, we decided to go to the doctor.

All I really remember is the utter shock I felt when the doctor broke down yelling at me.

Doctor: “You are just stressed out! You just need to learn to handle change better!” 

My mom was standing behind me to the right. I was sitting on the top step of a small step ladder for some reason, in the middle of the room. The doctor, a woman I had never met, was towering in the doorway yelling at us — at me. My mom put her hand on my right shoulder, but otherwise, we were frozen; neither of us is confrontational.

The doctor continued to demand that I “grow up” and “learn to cope with the world,” and insisted that I was only in pain because I wouldn’t accept change and that it was in my head.

At that point, I made eye contact with my mom, and we silently agreed to leave, ducking under the doctor’s arm and sliding sideways through the door to leave.

After, I asked my mom why the doctor had said that, and she just shook her head.

Imagine demanding that a six- or seven-year-old grow up and learn to cope with change.

Anyway, it turns out I have hypermobility and fibromyalgia unless I’ve been misdiagnosed. I have joint pain all the time, still.

Related:
Bedside Manner Who?

Many years ago, I had two cats who were sisters from the same litter: Miles and Kaylynn.

After a move to a new city, I dropped them off for their shots and warned the people at the vet’s office that Miles was protective over Kaylynn and not to have them out at the same time, or she would probably attack them for touching her sister.

When I came to pick them up, I was confronted by a very upset vet tech and the vet.

Vet: “Your cat is vicious and will need to wear a muzzle and be sedated if she is allowed back here.”

The tech held out her arm which had multiple bloody scratches.

Tech: “She attacked me and bit the vet twice!”

Me: “You mean Miles? The short hair? Was this during a shot?”

Vet: “We had already finished with her, and when we took the other one out and started to give her a shot, she growled and attacked us!”

Me: “I did tell you not to have them out at the same time because Miles is protective of her sister. If she attacked you, that was your fault.”

Tech: “That animal is evil, and I refuse to work on her again.”

Vet: “We’ve never had issues with animals from the same house out together before. There’s something wrong with your cat, and I don’t know that she’ll be allowed to return.”

Me: “That’s fine; I have no intention of bringing either of them back here when you can’t listen to simple instructions and blame the cat for something you were informed would happen.”

The vet and tech kept insisting there was something wrong with my cat, all because she was her sister’s protector. I never took either one of them back there, and I eventually found a different vet that both girls adored. None of the techs ever had a bad thing to say about either cat at the new place, probably because they did as I warned them and never tried to treat Kaylynn when Miles was outside her carrier.

It’s 2020, and I’ve accidentally changed counties. As ridiculous as it sounds, that means my doctor who has been treating me for years is legally no longer allowed to, as the office only takes the Medi-Cal low-income free health insurance associated with [County #1].

After extensive calling around, I get a phone intake (no one is really doing in-person appointments in late March 2020). The doctor asks me personal questions for over an hour, for what was supposed to be a half-hour appointment.

I’m just scared about a lapse in my vital medications, so I’m trying to just bear it, but I have to go to work.

He calls me to finish the intake on a Sunday, on his own time, and asks me personal questions about my childhood and trauma for another hour and a half.

Eventually, I start begging him to refill my medications, offering to send a plethora of documentation. He refuses the documentation, accuses me of being medication-seeking, and says that he has to evaluate me himself to decide what meds I should be on.

He is the only doctor I could get an appointment with, so I am trying desperately to hold my tongue.

Me: “Can I suggest we go over what medications I’ve been on and why, just so you have a comprehensive history?”

Doctor: “I can agree to fill some of them, but not [specific medication]. You’re too fat for it.”

I am speechless for a bit.

Me: “How?”

Doctor: “It’s my discretion and—”

Me: *Interrupting* “Do you know much I weigh?”

Doctor: “Tell me.”

Me: “No.”

Doctor: “That just confirms it; since you don’t want to tell me, you must be fat.”

Me: “I weigh 157 pounds. I’m 5’7″ and I’ve been working out so much lately that I might actually be underweight.”

I shouldn’t have said that because he switches tactics.

Doctor: “You can’t have [specific medication] if you’re underweight.”

Me: “How much am I supposed to weigh, and how do you expect me to prove this?”

Doctor: “If you don’t stop being non-compliant, I won’t fill any of your meds.”

So, I shut up, even though that’s not really what non-compliant means.

I called his office to complain, and the receptionist said that she knows him well, that he is very nice, and that he would never do that, and then she hung up on me.

It actually got worse.

He put me on a new medication, threatened to stop treating me if I didn’t start taking it, and then wouldn’t listen to my complaints. My complaint was that it made me irritable to the point that the smallest thing would actually enrage me. I then snapped at him on the phone, and he started screaming at me. I pointed out that he was the professional, not me, so he screamed more, and my housemate had to remind me to de-escalate.

I had to keep sucking up to that guy for months, with increasingly bad health due to not having all of my medications, until I finally used my old address to re-enroll in my old county. I really hope he no longer practices medicine.