I’m working as a hospital aide to pay rent through undergrad, usually working night shifts. It’s been one long, continuous disaster of a night, and by the time I finally manage to get enough of a lid on the chaos to go take my break — two hours late — all I want to do is sit and breathe for a few minutes, WITHOUT being handed any more tasks or dragged into emotionally draining conversations.

To my horror, I find that my least favorite aide on the floor is on break at the same time as me. This woman does. Not. Shut. Up. EVER. Her favorite (only) topic is herself, how everyone has wronged her, how put-upon and overworked she is, and what a martyr to her career and her dear, dear patients she is. She’ll tell you this while ignoring three call lights and a patient yelling for help, and she’ll ask you to do her tasks for her since she’s soooooooo busy. Since it’s the peak of Global Yuck, I can’t just go find somewhere else in the hospital to take my break. My only other option is to go outside. In the middle of a sleet-filled Chicago January. Riiiiiiiiiight.

I am NOT in the mood for this, and I decide to see if I can head off the woe-is-me monologue before it starts.

Me: “Hey, no offense, but I’m really not in the mood to talk. It’s been a long night.”

You never know. Maybe it’ll work. Maybe a herd of pigs is in flight somewhere.

Other Aide: “Oh, I totally get it. I’ve been run off my feet! And the nurses I’ve been assigned tonight are all such jerks. Do you know [Utterly Sweet, Diligent Nurse] expects me to bladder-scan three people? That’s not my job!” 

No such luck. And for the record, bladder-scanning is absolutely our job. It takes maybe two minutes and can be done alongside dropping off dinner trays or checking vitals. Nothing at all worth complaining about.

Me: “That sucks, but I really don’t want to talk about work. Or at all. It’s not you, just a long night.”

Other Aide: “Oh, I know, I’m not talking to you, just talking out loud. You can ignore me!”

We’re the only two people in the room.

Other Aide: “Anyway, did you hear [horrible gossip about another aide on our floor, a very sweet woman who lost her husband two years ago]? Serves her right. She refused to help me with my rounds! She’s so self-centered, isn’t she?”

Me: “…I really don’t want to talk about this.”

Curse my midwestern upbringing. Even in the face of an awful, hateful witch like this, I can’t bring myself to be openly rude. It’s physically painful to try. I’m working on undoing that conditioning, but it’s a sloooooow process, and in the meantime, I’m trapped.

Other Aide: “You don’t have to reply; I’m just talking to myself! What are you doing this weekend? My boyfriend said he has a surprise for me. I hope it’s better than…”

I finally get fed up, dig my earbuds out of my bag, and plug them into my phone without turning anything on. She claimed she wasn’t talking to me, but surprise freaking surprise, as soon as I am visibly Not Listening, she stops monologuing like a cartoon villain and spends the rest of the break glaring at me. It’s well worth it to finally get a little quiet, and I’m able to recombobulate a little before staggering back into the ring to finish my shift.

My favorite part of the story, though, comes a few weeks later, at one of the weekly game nights. I’ll periodically rant about work and the Great Plague, and the game group, all close friends, have been cracking jokes and helping keep me sane. Needless to say, they hear about the incident and help get me laughing out of a bad mood. I don’t think much of it until [Friend #2], who’s writing the story that we’re playing, introduces our next big fight: an undead lich, aide to the corrupt monarch we’re trying to topple. We’re halfway through the fight when…

Lich: “I cannot believe the nerve of you people! Do you have any idea how long it took me to carve out this power vacuum and find a regular supply of prisoners and orphans to experiment on? You are ruining it. And you clearly don’t even appreciate the architecture of my lair! No taste at all! So rude!”

Friend #1: “Oh, God, she’s going [Entitled-Customer-Type]! Kill her faster!”

Me: “Wait…”

Lich: “ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME? I spend all of my undeath serving the Count, and I still have to deal with peons like you! No one appreciates all the work I do! And now I’m going to have to spend days reorganizing my lair. I hope you’re happy that you ruined my weekend!”

Me: “Is that…?”

Friend #2: “I might not be able to actually drop a building on your s***ty coworker for you, but I can help you do it in effigy!”

Me: “Oh, my God, YES!”

I’m laughing hysterically by this point, and the rest of the group joins in as it sinks in who we’re fighting. It is an excellent, well-fought battle, and we finally manage to destroy the lich’s artifact of power and have her pinned under rubble, the secret underground dungeon/laboratory collapsing around us.

Friend #3: “You want to do the honors?”

Me: “Absolutely, I do!”

Lich [Other Aide] has gone down in game-group history as one of our favorite bosses to defeat. We took great pleasure in dropping the ceiling on her, still yelling about how underappreciated she was. Working in a hospital during the plague sucked for a lot of reasons, but supportive friends make up for a lot!

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)

I had an ultrasound this week at the hospital.

Nurse: “Is there a possibility that you’re pregnant?”

I looked down at my bump.

Me: “Yes.”

The nurse responded without looking at me.

Nurse: “Then I’ll need you to pee in this cup—”

Me: *Interrupting* “Lady, I’m twenty weeks pregnant. That’s why I’m here: to find out the baby’s sex.”

Nurse: “Oh. Still, I recommend that you take the test.”

I just glared at her until she left and the doctor came in. 

By the way, if anyone is wondering, it’s a girl.

This is the story of how my mom’s older sister was born, back in the 1950s.

Nanny (my grandmother) went into labor at home. She called Pa (grandfather) to come and take her to the hospital. The area was very rural at the time, and the hospital was a ways away.

Pa either was already at his mother’s house or decided to stop in and tell them the “wonderful news” about the impending birth. (I don’t remember which.) His mother insisted on feeding him a good meal. And he, naturally, decided that eating was far more important than getting his pregnant wife to the hospital.

By the time Pa got to the house, Nanny was well into labor pains. She was dropped off at the hospital door and rushed to the delivery room. Meanwhile, Pa parked the car. By the time he walked into the hospital, he was a father. My aunt was nearly born in the car — it was that close a thing.

Nanny made her opinion on the delay Very Clear, and this did not repeat for the next two children.

I’ve just had surgery. A nice volunteer takes my wheelchair and wheels me to the car where my mom is waiting. My mom and I have a brief conversation. Then, we turn back to the volunteer and I try to get his attention. The volunteer stops me before I can say anything.

Volunteer: “No, I’m sorry. I appreciate it, but we’re not allowed to take tips.”

Me: “Um… I was actually going to say that I left some paperwork back in the recovery room, and I needed your help to retrieve it.”

Volunteer: “Oh.”