(This happened to my dad. He was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes, and because of this, he has to have something to eat every two or three hours. His boss knows this. One day, the boss comes over to Dad’s desk to discuss something.)

Boss: *talking without paying attention*

(At that moment, the coffee cart rolls by.)

Dad: “Excuse me for a minute—”

Boss: *ignoring him*

Dad: “Uh, [Boss]? Just give me a minute—”

Boss: “Why?”

Dad: “I need to go get something from the coffee cart.”

Boss: *annoyed* “Now?”  

Dad: “Yes, now.”

Boss: “For Pete’s sake, would it kill you to wait?”

Dad: “Literally? Probably not. But it won’t be healthy for me.”

Boss: *pause* “Oh, the diabetes thing. Right.”

(It wouldn’t have been such a big deal, except that this happened at least once a month.)

Related:
What A Diabeetus, Part 4
What A Diabeetus, Part 3
What A Diabeetus, Part 2

(I work at the bakery in a somewhat upscale grocery store. We, annoyingly, allow customers to try a “sample” of nearly anything if they ask. When we get new product, we always cut up samples and put them out. We’ve recently started making four new breads, so we put out four paper bags with the cut-up bread and a sign stating what each bread is, its ingredients, and its allergy information. Two young boys walk up with their father.)

Father: “I’m looking for the best bread to make garlic bread with.”

(His kids start eating samples, and I help the father pick out bread. They leave, and a few minutes later the father returns, looking angry.)

Father: “Which one was it?”

(The younger of the two kids points to a bag.)

Father: “[Bread]? Which one is the [Bread]?”

Me: “This one.” *I hold up the bread*

Father: “Are those sesame seeds?!”

Me: “Yes. But it is the same bread as this one.” *picks up different bread* “It just has sesame seeds on top.”

Father: “My son is allergic to sesame seeds!”

Me: “Oh. So, do you—”

Father: *interrupts* “How could you let him eat this?! You should warn people with allergies!”

Me: “I’m sorry, sir. The allergy information is posted right here—” *gestures to the sign* “—on top of the bag.

Father: “My son can’t read!”

Me: “Well, then, as the father of a son with allergies who is too young to be able to read, shouldn’t you be paying more attention to what he is putting into his mouth?”

Father: *glares and storms off*

This story is part of our Food Allergies roundup!

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Read the Food Allergies roundup!

(I’m in hard labor with my first child, who is two weeks overdue. After early labor all day, it’s now past midnight and the contractions are unbearable. My husband is driving me to our hospital, forty five minutes from home. I’m in the passenger seat, eyes tightly closed, counting my breathing and the miles under the tires. The car finally comes to a slow stop, and I’m ecstatic that we’ve arrived.)

Me: “Oh, thank God. I can’t take this much more! We’re there, right?”

Husband: “Uh, well…”

Outside The Car: “Welcome to [Tex Mex Fast Food Place]. Are you interested in a combo meal?”

(Two meals ordered, and we were back en route to the hospital ten minutes away. Nine years later, we still joke about being the couple that showed up in the labor and delivery ward with a duffel bag and Tex Mex.)

(It is the late 90s, and I am 12 years old. I get to go on a ten-day trip to Italy with my family and five other families. It is planned through a travel agency, so we are already signed up to see and do certain things. The day arrives when we reach Venice by bus, and I am not feeling well at all. It turns out, I’ve gotten food poisoning from the rest stop we ate breakfast at this morning. I am the only one who ate a particular bad food item, and therefore am the only one who is sick. My parents are pretty upset, because getting on a gondola is out of the question for me, and it’s something we’ve all been looking forward to. I am already nauseated enough on dry land. They are discussing which one of them will stay with me while the rest of our group goes on the gondolas, or if they could possibly switch off at some point, when our tour guide comes over with an older Italian lady.)

Tour Guide: “Good news! You can both go on the gondola ride. My friend here will stay with your daughter.”

Mom: “Oh! Thank you, but we don’t want to impose. I can stay with [My Name].”

Tour Guide: “No, no, no! You must experience the gondola! [My Name] can stay here with [Lady]. She owns a restaurant near where we will dock later.”

(After talking it out for a few minutes, and after our tour guide assures them again she’s known the lady for a long time, my parents agree to meet me at the restaurant after the gondola ride. So, the tour guide walks the lady and I back to her little restaurant on the water. I am so sick to my stomach that I nearly throw up again before we reach it. The tour guide leaves, and the lady ushers me inside the restaurant. Inside, the lady says something in rapid Italian. I know only a few words, and am so nauseated all I can do is stare at her and try to not throw up on her shoes. The lady clucks her tongue at me and guides me to a little back room with an attached bathroom. She tells everyone we pass something about me in Italian. I assume she is informing everyone of my plight, but who knows. I also think random people keep calling me bebe, which I assume means “baby.” I’m sure I look pretty miserable. I spend the afternoon alternating between running to the bathroom and huddling on a tiny couch in that room. The lady checks on me every so often, bringing me some kind of broth and water to drink. By the time my parents come back with the tour guide, I feel better enough to make it to our hotel. They are very grateful to the lady for looking after me, and we even go to eat at her restaurant before we leave Venice, when I am able to eat again. Back home from our trip, a friend is asking me for details about everything we saw in Italy.)

Friend: “Oh! Did you go on one of those little boat things in Venice? Did the driver sing that song they always sing in the movies?”

Me: “Uh… No. My mom and dad got to go, but I was sick.”

Friend: “Aw, really? You didn’t get to go at all?”

Me: “No, but I became very well-acquainted with a Venetian bathroom. I also think I have an Italian grandma, now.”

(Thank you again, kind Italian lady, for watching a sick kid who couldn’t understand a word you were saying!)

(I’m a customer waiting for my order when I hear the manager talking to an angry customer over the phone.)

Manager: “So, you ordered chilli paste on your pizza and you’re allergic to chillies?”

Related:
Allergic To Common Sense, Part 12
Allergic To Common Sense, Part 11
Allergic To Common Sense, Part 10