CONTENT WARNING: Suicide Ideation

I was in my first week on the phones after training. As it was April of 2020, I was not in the office but being looked after in my work-from-home setup.

It was my last call of the day. The customer had physically damaged their device, so a repair was the next step. I was explaining the limited options due to lockdowns starting in their area and that they weren’t able to go to their preferred store due to this. The call had been relatively normal up to this point, though with a few minor phrasings and comments that made me think the caller might not be all there.

Me: “All right. Since you don’t want to do any of the repair options, we’re going to have to wait until things open up more.”

The caller spoke in the same tone that someone would use to comment on the weather in a boring conversation.

Caller: “Okay, I guess I’ll just kill myself, then.”

Panic mode instantly shut down almost everything, and I jump instantly to the “if a customer threatens harm” area of my training:

Me: “Please don’t hurt yourself; we don’t want you to hurt yourself. If you feel that way, you should talk to a doctor or someone—”

Caller: “No, I think I’ll just kill myself.” *Click*

I called back immediately, very panicked but keeping my tone as calm as I could.

Me: “I’m sorry, we seemed to get cut off there. I just wanted to make sure you were all right and heard what I was saying — that we don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Caller: *Slightly confused tone* “But I can’t go to [Repair Shop] and my [Device] is broken?”

Me: “No, you can’t right now, I’m sorry. The only other way to get it fixed right now is [slightly roundabout method].”

Customer: “Yeah, I’ll just do something, maybe kill myself. Bye.”

I freaked out more than a little, calling up the supervisor level, asking if it counted as a customer being in “immediate physical danger” because, again, that tone was so casual. My brain was just looping on the “threat”.

The supervisor managed to calm me down and gently explained that I had done my best, but if the customer wasn’t accepting my comments, it wasn’t like we could force them into medical help, and since we didn’t really know where they were, then it wasn’t like we could get an ambulance out there.

I ended up at my end-of-day briefing sobbing over it and had no less than three of our trainers jumping up on the conference program to call me directly and make sure I was okay.

I STILL don’t know what was going on in that person’s head, or if they really meant anything by it, but I lost someone important to such thoughts, so there was no way I wouldn’t try to stop it if I could.

The weirdest praise I got for it, though, came from the trainer who I’d chosen for the comfort, who reinforced that they were impressed at how well I’d reacted to it in terms of giving the customer the correct information — that we didn’t want them hurt and that they should see a doctor for those feelings — and attempting to get help. Apparently, she didn’t think even a fully-trained supervisor would have responded with those sentiments so immediately. So… good for me for having a traumatic childhood?

It starts out as a normal Saturday night in my small-town restaurant. I come in for my shift at 4:00 pm, and I’m feeling good — ready for the busy night ahead and to make some money.

I go to use the restroom at around 5:00 pm before things start to really pick up and notice that I’m bleeding and slightly cramping. I’ve started my period early — oh, well. I do my thing and go about my business.

My cramps keep getting worse, but it is what it is. We’re busy, and there’s only one other server on with me, so I pop four ibuprofen and keep going. We’re mid-dinner rush at this point.

The cramps are getting worse to the point where I am doubling over behind the bar trying to make drinks. I’m starting to worry, so I try to call the owner who is out of town. No answer.

I go to the restroom and start throwing up. I feel like I’m going to pass out. I have eight tables in the dining area and six people at the bar. There’s absolutely no way I can leave, so I try to find coverage.

Finally, I get someone who’s cross-trained in the kitchen to help out in the dining room until I can get my s*** together. Everything’s getting fuzzy, my hearing is going out, and now I can’t stand. I call my mom.

Me: “I need you to drive me to the emergency room. Something isn’t right.”

After a break, I was not feeling fuzzy anymore, so I tried to continue to help where it was needed before I left.

My mom arrived and I left. I made it to the ER, where I passed out in the waiting area. I came to throwing up yet again what looked like coffee grounds. I was rushed back to a room immediately where multiple tests and ultrasounds were done.

It turned out that my Fallopian tube had ruptured due to pelvic inflammatory disease, which I’d had no idea I had. I had emergency surgery less than an hour later to have my right Fallopian tube removed completely and two blood transfusions because I was bleeding heavily internally.

Trust your body and don’t put your work before your health. I almost died because I didn’t want to leave my coworkers short-staffed.

I work in the kitchen of a pub. On a slow day, one of the customers orders a rare steak. We cook it and send it to them, only for the bar staff to radio us.

Bar: “Y’know that steak for table [number]? Can we get a new one well done?”

Coworker: “Didn’t they order it rare?”

Bar: “Yes, but when we took it over, the customer said they have a medical condition that means they can’t eat any blood or any meat that could be bloody. So, the steak has to be very well done.”

Coworker: *To himself* “Seriously? Why’d they order it rare, then?” *Through the radio* “Yeah, all right. It’ll be at least ten minutes, though.”

Bar: “Yeah, that’s fine.”

My coworker throws the steak onto the grill, and almost immediately the bar radios up again.

Bar: “Actually, could we get them a chicken tikka, instead?”

Coworker: “I thought you just asked for a well-done steak?”

Bar: “Yeah, but the customer changed their mind, and now they want tikka.”

Coworker: “…Right.”

We cooked that, instead, and since we didn’t hear back from the bar, I can only assume the customer was happy with their curry.

We left the steak on the grill to cook for a bit, just in case another customer ordered it, but no one did. So, when it was very well done and my coworker was about to throw it out, I asked if I could have it on my break, instead. Since we’re allowed one free meal at break time as one of our staff perks, my coworker had no issue with that. It was a tasty mis-steak.

I received a call during work about my former husband being involved in a rather nasty traffic accident. I will not reveal the details, but I will say that he needed his legs amputated. I had to leave work early and be by his side.

When I finally come back to work, I sit in the break room and tell my coworker about this.

Me: “The doctors acted quickly, and I am grateful for that. Otherwise, he would have died of shock.”

My coworker comforts me when I start crying again. The manager is in the room at the time, although I don’t notice.

Later, when I am working, he pulls me aside and frowns at me with his arms crossed.

Manager: “Did [Former Husband] really get into an accident, or did you just want time off?”

Me: *Shocked* “He… He did. I can show you the photos—”

Manager: *Patronising* “You can’t die of shock, [My Name]; that’s a stupid Victorian idea.”

The senior manager is walking past and stops.

Senior Manager: “She doesn’t mean being horrified, [Manager]; she means sepsis.”

Manager: “Well, I watch medical shows, so I think I know more than you.”

He walked off. The senior manager told me to ignore him. When I came in the next day, I brought photos of my husband in his hospital bed for everybody to look at.

While weaning my son, we had the common issue of constipation after introducing all these new solid foods after a milk-only diet. I did all the right things — butternut squash, prunes, pears, tummy massages, cycling legs, etc. — but my poor seven-month-old was just having trouble doing his business.

We were visiting my parents in the thick of our issues, and my dad was holding and playing with the baby. My son began trying to poop and, noting the particular position he was being held in and seeing it was helping, I shouted at my dad to keep holding him like that.

Amid the cries of pain and struggle coming from the baby, my dad proceeded to freak out that he was holding a pooping child — despite the fact that not only was my son wearing a nappy, but he was also fully clothed!

Sometimes I really wonder what life was like for the older generation.