Suffering From A Secretarial Disease

, , , , | Right | November 3, 2018

(I’m the stupid one in this story. I’m having a difficult day at work, I’m tired, and my arm is hurting. I call the doctor’s office to schedule an appointment. After a few minutes on hold, where my brain apparently takes a hike, this conversation takes place.)

Secretary: “This is [Medical Clinic]. How may I help you?”

Me: “Yeah, this is [My name]. I… erm… You need my social security number, don’t you?”

Secretary: “That would help, yes.”

(I give my social security number.)

Secretary: “Okay, [My Name], how can we help you?”

Me: “Well, my elbow has been hurting a while. I think it’s minor, but it just won’t go away.”

Secretary: “Okay, how long has this been going on?”

Me: “One or two weeks. But I think before that, I hit my elbow, and it was sore to the touch for ages.”

Secretary: “Well, we—”

Me: “It seems to have the full range of motion, but…” *the secretary tries to cut in, but I keep rambling* “…I lose nearly all my strength when trying to lift something away from my body with my arm straight.”

Secretary: *finally gets a word in* “I’m sorry, but the first available time we have is in two weeks, on [date].”

Me: “Two weeks? There’s an epidemic going down?”

Secretary: *not laughing* “It is really busy right now.”

Me: “Oh… Right… Let me just check my calendar. Right, that’s doable… Wait… You said two weeks… That’s… I’ve got time off from work by then, so I am free all day.”

Secretary: “We… uhh… We still only have that single appointment time, nothing earlier in the day.”

Me: “Oh… Right, right. I… uh… I’ll take it.”

Secretary: “See you then.” *hangs up*

Me: “Did… I just try to have the secretary diagnose my arm over the phone?”

Walking All Over The Rules

, , , , | Working | November 2, 2018

(My job has a strict dress code, including dress shoes that must be all black. I’ve recently been working 40+ hours a week on my feet, although my position is part-time. This has caused me to develop a painful foot problem, and my doctor writes me a note stating I must wear athletic shoes to work, even stating that they should accommodate for color, as the shoes I need do not come in all black. This happens the first day I wear my shoes to work after delivering my doctor’s note to the store manager.)

Assistant Manager: “Hey, your shoes are against dress code. You need a doctor’s note to wear athletic shoes!”

Me: “Actually, I have a doctor’s note. It’s on file with the store manager.”

Assistant Manager: “Well, they aren’t all black, so you need to change.”

Me: “My doctor’s note specifically says to accommodate for color, since these shoes are the exact ones I need for my condition. There’s a number on the note you can call if you have questions on it.”

Assistant Manager: “Well, until I see it, you can’t wear them.”

Me: “It’s filed with [Store Manager], or I can grab my other copy from my car if you’d prefer.”

Assistant Manager: “I didn’t expect you to be one to break the rules!”

(After this, he left. I’ve always been a strict rule follower, and it’s beyond me why he thought I’d break policy. I let my store manager know that the assistant manager was concerned about my shoes, and she let me know that she talked to him immediately after receiving my note. Some people.)

Should Have Had The Farsight To Run When They Approached You

, , , , , | Right | November 1, 2018

Me: “Hi. What can I help you with?”

(The customer points to a top on a bust form high on a wall on the other side of shop.)

Customer: “Where is that?”

(I lead her to it.)

Customer: “How much is it?”

Me: “It’s still full price.”

Customer: “So, how much is that?”

(I think she’s being either lazy or entitled, not bothering to look at the tag, but I tell her the price.)

Customer: “I think I need a medium.” *turns and points to an item on a mannequin on the far side of the store, where we were before* “Where is that one?”

(I walk her to it, and we go through about the same scenario. Repeat a couple more times. I’m starting to feel like a ping-pong ball, bouncing between sides of the store.)

Customer: “Where are the sales racks?”

Me: “Any rack with a small sign on the top is a sales rack; the sign tells you how much they’re discounted.”

Customer: “Let’s go look at them.”

(I take her to a rack, and she pulls out a shirt almost at random.)

Customer: “How much is this one?”

(I’m kind of startled that she can’t figure half-price in her head, but I tell her.)

Customer: “Okay, find me a medium and a large.”

(We repeat this two or three more times, too. I’m starting to feel bad about neglecting the other customers in the store, having to follow this woman around like a personal servant.)

Customer: “Okay, I think I’m ready to try them on. Where are your dressing rooms?”

(I lead her to a pair of rooms on the side wall. The rooms bump out into the store, but the doors are in the sides facing each other, and there’s a mirrored wall between. I opened a door for her, then turned and watched as she WALKED INTO THE MIRROR. Every time she tried on a new piece, she came out of her dressing room and stood eight to ten feet back from the mirror between them. That’s when I realized that she was extremely farsighted; not only could she not focus to read but probably couldn’t even see someone standing right in front of her clearly. That’s the reason she kept focusing on things high up and far away, and asking me to read all the price tags. As I watched her walk out after making her purchase, I also realized she was DRIVING A CAR LIKE THAT.)

The Mother Of All Rescues

, , , , , , , | Hopeless | October 31, 2018

I was walking into town for some errands when a man ran up to me.

“Do you have a mobile phone?” he asked.

He didn’t look like a mugger, so I assented. He led me over to an elderly lady and told me she had fallen down; he’d helped her up, but then she’d fallen again and now couldn’t get up. She was conscious but obviously needed an ambulance.

I called an ambulance and then waited with her.

While I was on the phone, her neighbour came by, and she gave the neighbour her handbag to take home, which seemed a silly idea, but I was on the phone so I couldn’t stop her.

She was warm enough, and there were no signs of blood, so I decided the best thing to do was not to move her but keep her talking. I asked about her family and she told me she had two sons. One owned a pub and the other worked with the police. I wanted to try to contact her sons, but having given her handbag to her neighbour, she didn’t have their numbers. I realised that with the information she’d given me, I could find them myself.

First, I searched online for the pub. I called the number but got no answer, unsurprisingly, since it was morning. I left a message. Then I asked which police service the other son worked for, found the number, and called them. He wasn’t there, but I gave someone there my details and explained the situation. They asked for his mother’s first name to assure that I wasn’t making it up, and a few minutes later he called me back. I told him what had happened and let him talk to his mum for a bit. Then we rang off and continued waiting for the ambulance. When they came, I texted the son with which hospital they were taking her to. He thanked me for taking care of her and promised to let me know how she was.

I went on with my errand and didn’t hear from them. Once a couple of weeks had passed, I assumed that I would probably never know what happened to her. I often wondered about her but I changed phones and lost her son’s number.

Two years later, I got a phone call. It was her. She thanked me for my help, for calling her son, and for staying with her. She told me that she’d broken her hip that day and she’d had a lot of surgeries as a result, but she was doing well. I was crying my eyes out when I got off the phone, I was so pleased she was okay.

The Barking Mad Policeman Is Worse Than The Bite

, , , , , , | Legal | October 31, 2018

(I am attacked by a dog when I am cycling home from work. A huge mastiff jumps, and his claw slices into my arm, so I’m losing a lot of blood and I will need stitches. I need to get to hospital immediately. It is rush hour, and my car is only twenty metres away. I decide to drive myself, instead of calling an ambulance. Just outside the hospital, I see blue lights behind me. I pull over, get out of the car, and start speaking immediately.)

Me: “I’ve been mauled by a dog. I’m going to Accident & Emergency.”

Officer: “Why are you driving in the bus lane?”

Me: “Seriously? I need to get seen immediately. That’s more important than driving a bus lane. Really, now is not the time.”

Officer: “When did this happen? Where? Was anyone with you?”

Me: “Ten minutes ago on [Street], by myself. Why? Are you investigating the dog?”

Officer: “You should have called an ambulance. You shouldn’t be driving like that.”

(I’m livid at this point. The cop can see a huge wound on my arm, but he is arguing about this right literally in front of the hospital. I have had enough. Technically, he could ticket me for this, but I take my chances.)

Me: “What exactly did you observe about my driving that makes you think I can’t drive with an injured arm?”

Officer: “Nothing in particular. You can’t concentrate properly with—”

Me: “So, you have no evidence that my driving is impaired. Look at my arm. I will need stitches. Would I get stitches in an ambulance?”

Officer: “No, you—”

Me: “Exactly; an ambulance would be no better than a taxi. Also, it’s rush hour. A tiny car like this–” *points at my Smart car* “–gets me through the traffic. Now, I have more urgent matters to attend to in the hospital over there.” *points 300 yards away* “If you have any more questions, ask me during triage.”

Officer: “You can go now. This time only, you can use the bus lane for turning into the hospital.”

Me: “You don’t need to tell me.”

(In the hospital, I am given six stitches immediately. Then, the following happens:)

Me: “The cop tried to tell me I should have waited on an ambulance. You’re the medic. Would it have made any difference if I got an ambulance?”

Nurse: “Not in the slightest.”

Me: “And was I in a fit state to drive?”

Nurse: “Perfectly. Keep it dry, and the stitches out in two weeks.”

Me: “Thank you, sir.”

(Police later told me they don’t investigate dog attacks at all, even though I was hospitalised and I have the name and address. Where do these people get their priorities from?)

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