Back in 1998, my husband and I visit a large furniture and houseware shop and then go on to see friends in the middle of the nearest major city. Come dinner time, my husband realises he doesn’t have his insulin; we realise he must have left the bag containing it (and his ID saying he’s diabetic!) on a sofa in the shop. Our options are to drive the seventy miles home or go to the nearest hospital and wait in A&E [accident and emergency] — not a pleasant option on a Saturday night

More in hope than expectation, [Husband] rings the store’s twenty-four-hour credit card line.

Husband: “I know that this has nothing to do with you, but I’ve left a bag in your Warrington branch, and it has my insulin in it. Is there anything you can do?”

The lady on the other end asked us to ring back in ten minutes whilst she did some investigation. 

Ten minutes later, she told us that a security guard from the shop was just coming off shift, and he would deliver the bag to a police station near where we were staying. All we had to do was to go in and describe the bag and its contents, and they would hand it over. 

Saved by a credit card line operator and a security guard. We never knew either of their names!

I am a line cook in a restaurant that serves pizzas, among other items. The ingredients of each pizza are stated on the menu; this is not the kind of restaurant where you choose your own toppings.

I get an order for a mushroom pizza, with a modification of “cheese only on half.” Before I can start making it, the server who placed the order comes to me to confirm the “no cheese” and to ask a question.

Server #1: “You saw that my order was cheese only on half, right? Two people are sharing it, and one has a severe dairy allergy! Also, they want to know what this is.”

He points to the word “bechamel” on the menu under the description of the pizza.

Me: “Bechamel. That is the sauce on the pizza, and it is dairy-based. I cannot make this pizza for someone with a severe dairy allergy; anything on one side of the pizza is bound to run onto the other side during the cooking process. Also, they can’t eat the sauce, either.”

The server leaves to discuss with the guests and then returns a few minutes later.

Server #1: “Can you make the pizza with no sauce and no cheese on one side?”

Me: “No. Again, the sauce and cheese will run onto the other side while it’s cooking. My mother had severe food allergies. This would have been enough to put her in the hospital or worse. I won’t send anyone to the emergency room today. Also, this pizza with no cheese or sauce is just pizza crust with mushrooms on it, and they will not be happy with that.”

Server #1: “Okay.”

He leaves again to deal with the table, and then once again, he returns.

Server #1: “Can you make the Margherita pizza with cheese only on half?”

I sigh deeply and stare off into the distance for a few moments in a way that I hope conveys to this server that I am trying very hard not to cuss him out.

Me: “I. Will not. Serve any dairy product. To a person. With. A. Severe. Dairy. Allergy! Please go get [Manager] to explain this to the table since they are having so much trouble understanding it!”

[Manager] is nowhere to be found — as is typical for him, but I digress. A more senior server overhears and offers to speak to the table himself. He quickly returns. By this time, I have made the Margherita pizza with no cheese anywhere on it.

Server #2: “They don’t have an allergy; it’s just a preference.”

Server #1: “But they told me it was a severe allergy! Those were their words! They didn’t say it was just a preference!”

Me: “Oh, I believe that’s what they told you. Too bad it means nobody gets any cheese now.”

I wish I could say that this was the only time a person claimed a severe allergy while ordering their allergen, but it happens a few times per month! What’s so hard about just saying they don’t want it?!

This story reminds me of when I broke my leg. After I broke it, I hobbled along for three weeks thinking it was a bad sprain, but then I saw a physiotherapist who sent me to get an X-ray. I got the X-ray, and then I sat in the waiting room and waited and waited… but no results.

After a long time, I went to the reception. Apparently, they thought they’d already sent me on my way. To apologise for this, they gave me a ticket to the cinema — strange but nice.

They sent me to the ICU. There, I saw a little girl — five or six years old — with her mother. She was crying and holding her arm. I decided to try to cheer her up by giving her my ticket after asking her mother if it was okay.

She did stop crying, and she seemed a bit excited about picking a movie. But sadly, Paw Patrol was no longer in the cinema, so she was sad again.

Related:
Hopefully, That Good Mood Will Stick(er)

CONTENT WARNING: Serious Accident/Injury (Car meets cherry picker)

I’m a construction worker — or rather, I was.

One day, I am working on the facade of a building in a cherry picker. For those of you who don’t know, a cherry picker is basically a platform you can stand on at the end of a very long hydraulic arm attached to a small self-propelled chassis.

I’m restoring a historic building downtown. It’s very finicky work, especially as we’re limited in the techniques we’re allowed to use. I used to be one of very few people willing to work on this style of historical building.

I start hearing something of a commotion, but I’m very focused on my work, and if I turn to look, it could ruin a whole day’s labor or more. I hear lots of sirens and loud honks. I can tell SOMETHING is wrong; I’m not an idiot. I start getting to a point where I can move away from my work as quickly as practically possible.

The noises get louder, and I turn to look. I have just enough time to see a blue Toyota Camry plow into the chassis of the cherry picker.

The whole thing jumps, and I’m thrown off of the platform. I don’t remember hitting the ground, but when I wake up, the cherry picker’s arm is lying across one of my legs, and a grizzled older paramedic is standing over me.

Paramedic: “You alive, man?”

Me: “I thought it would hurt more.”

Paramedic: “That’s not a good sign. Please don’t try to move. We’re going to put an IV in you, knock you out, get the picker arm off of you, and get you to the hospital.”

And they did. I lost the pinned leg despite the paramedic’s best efforts; it was too damaged.

The driver of the car survived. He was a drunk driver, and he was trying to evade pursuit by the police. He got seven years but got out on good behavior after four. He didn’t have insurance. 

Rehab took me years, and now I work as a trainer teaching other people how to do the restoration work I used to do.

I am looking for a particular product, so I approach an employee in one of the aisles.

Me: “Excuse me. I’m looking for [product], but I can’t seem to find it.”

Employee: “Oh, sure, we have those. Follow me to—”

The employee’s words trail off and his eyes go wide. Almost immediately, he runs past me, and I turn to see him throw himself to the ground to catch another customer — an older man, who has started to fall. The man lands on the employee, who immediately puts him into the recovery position.

Employee: “Call 911!”

Me: “Oh! Doing it!”

I get my phone out.

Me: “What do I tell them?”

Employee: “Tell them that a customer is having an epileptic seizure at [Store] on [Street address].”

I tell the emergency dispatcher the information, and they say they have an ambulance on the way. I stay with the employee while a manager appears and keeps the other customers away.

Me: “How do you know it’s a seizure?”

Employee: “He’s one of our regulars. Usually, we bring his stuff to him, but he came out today. Sadly, he chose a bad day.”

The manager has done the crowd control and comes over.

Manager: “Is that Mr. [Old Man]?”

Employee: “Yes, it is. I’m worried.”

Manager: “He’s had seizures before. He should be okay.”

Employee: “No, I’m worried about his insurance. He said he wouldn’t be covered if he had another seizure a while back. I’m worried what this might cost him.”

The manager looks at the regular, at his employee, and then at me.

Manager: *To me* “You saw him slip, right?”

Me: “Uh… I… what?”

The manager opens a bottle of water and starts pouring it on the floor.

Manager: “You saw this guy fall to the ground after slipping on water, right?”

Me: “I… uh… I guess I did.”

Manager: “Oh, no, I guess the store is liable. I’ll fill out the incident report. [Employee], make sure that the paramedics have the situation explained to them?”

Employee: “You got it.”

Manager: “Good. F*** this place.”

The manager heads to the front of the store to greet the ambulance.

Me: “What just happened?”

Employee: “The store has new investors, but they’re bleeding the company dry. None of us plans to stay around much longer, but I think my manager was planning on leaving end of the week. I think this might be his last hurrah.”

While I might not have been 100% comfortable with what had just happened, it turned out that I wasn’t required to answer any questions, so I left without worrying too much.

The store had a “closing down” sale a few months later, and I found that same employee that was so heroic on the day. He said that the insurance company found the store negligent based on the manager’s (now retired) testimony. The new investors had run the company into the ground (apparently intentionally), but they had managed to get one good deed out of the whole mess.