I Just Can’t Wait For You To Stab Me With A Needle!

, , , , , | Healthy | November 30, 2020

When my son is seven years old, I move to a new town. The school system has some different regulations for vaccines than where we have just come from. As it turns out, my son needs a shot before joining school in the new town. Unfortunately, my son is extremely needle-phobic. I have previously assisted holding him still in instances where he needed a shot or stitches. I know, as a nurse and a mom, that what needs to be done needs to be done.

As I am new to the area and do not have a pediatrician yet, I ask the school for the name of the school doctor. The following happens when my son and I arrive at his appointment for his shot.

Me: *To the receptionist* “Hi, I’m [My Name] and this is [Son]. We are here for his [shot].”

Receptionist: “Sure, have a seat in exam room one. Someone will be with you shortly.”

Me: “Thank you.”

[Son] and I wait for a few minutes. He knows he is there for a shot and starts to get a bit anxious. I do my best to distract him and calm him down. Soon, the doctor arrives in the room.

Doctor: “Good afternoon, ma’am, [Son]. So, you’re here for a [shot]?”

Me: “Yes, we are.”

Doctor: “Okay, I’ll get that ready for you and I’ll be back in a minute.”

The doctor leaves the room and arrives back a few minutes later with the needle and syringe on a tray.

Doctor: “All right, so here we are.” *Addresses my son directly* “So, [Son], are you ready for your shot now?”

My jaw drops; I cannot believe what I just heard. Why would you ever ask a child if they are ready to receive a shot? My son immediately indicates that he is not ready.

Doctor: “Okay, I’ll give you a few minutes. I’ll be back.”

I sit trying to calm my son as he grows increasingly anxious. Twenty minutes later, the doctor returns.

Doctor: “All right, big guy, are you ready yet?”

Son: “No.”

Doctor: “Well, then, you just let me know when you are.”

The doctor leaves the room again. I am so shocked that I am not able to verbalize my thoughts. My son begins to panic. He is wringing his hands and pulling at his hair. It is difficult to watch. Imagine a needle-phobic seven-year-old being told that he is the one who has to actually ask to be given a shot. He just isn’t going to be able to do it.

Another twenty minutes go by before the doctor returns.

Doctor: “So, [Son], do you want me to give you that [shot] now?”

Me: “Okay, hold on, doc. We have been here for an hour, during which time you have been tormenting a young child by telling him he needs to ask to be given a shot. This ends now. I am the mother. I make the medical decisions, not him. He is getting this shot, and he is getting it now. Go get your receptionist and have her come in to help me hold him still. You have got him worked so into a frenzy that I cannot do it by myself. When she comes in here, this is going to go one, two, three: you give him the shot, we leave, this trauma is over. Go get her. Now.”

And that is what happened. To this day, I am still unhappy with myself that I allowed the torture to go on as long as it did. I later followed up with a complaint to the school system about their “school doctor.” I also put it in writing that for any school health screenings that might come up, that doctor was not to come within twenty feet of my son.

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Rage-Quit That Rant

, , , , , | Right | November 26, 2020

My family owns several shops on the boardwalk in our town and has for many years. Working at these shops is a common job for high-school-aged kids as it’s basically like any other retail job and has the perk of being right there on the beach. The downside is that kids that age aren’t exactly the most responsible, so when these kids call out of work, we tend to fill in when we can as a family.

I work at a nearby hospital most of the time but am working in the bathing suit shop that night since I am free and no one is available. A woman storms up to me, quite out of breath.

Customer: “This is ridiculous! Where are your bathing suits for women?”

Me: *Waves around the shop* “Everywhere?”

She responds slowly, as if she’s talking to a small child.

Customer: “Women, not kids.”

I realize that she’s shopping for herself. We don’t stock anything above a sixteen, and while I’m not an amazing judge of sizes that aren’t close to my own, this woman is much larger than a sixteen. She’s currently wearing a one-piece suit with a sarong.

Me: “I’m sorry, we have women’s suits up to size sixteen. The front suits on a rack might look small, but as you look behind them, there are larger sizes.”

I’m fairly certain most retail stores work this way. I’m usually an eight and I rarely find my own size at the front of a rack anywhere.

Customer: “Women’s sizes start at a sixteen, you skinny b****!”

I’m… not skinny? I’m an eight, though admittedly reasonably tall. I’m still rather insecure about my body. This touches a nerve.

Me: “Well, I’m a woman and I’m an eight. I don’t think we’ll be able to help you; you can leave now.”

I motion to the door and she slaps my arm down. I’m startled and realize there is no one else in the shop should she become more violent. She’s still quite out of breath and she’s grown red in the face with anger.

Customer: “I’m tired of entitled little girls like you thinking that you can walk all over real women just because you starve yourselves! You’re a f****** joke!”

She is waving her arms, stomping, and generally behaving like a child.

Customer: “I should be able to walk into any store and find an outfit off the rack and I CAN’T BECAUSE OF B****ES—”

She’s cut off mid-rant. For a minute, I think she’s just taking a breath to keep yelling at me. I’m already reaching for my phone to call the boardwalk station to get some police down here to escort her out when she places her hand on her chest.

This woman has literally raged herself into having a heart attack in my shop. She drops to the ground and I hit the speaker on my phone. When the boardwalk station answers, I request an ambulance. I wind up doing CPR on her for a minute before EMS arrives.

My coworkers call me “skinny b****” now, so all she accomplished was giving me a nickname.


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The Kindness Combo

, , , , , | Right | November 24, 2020

My mom and I decide to go to my favorite fast-food restaurant for lunch. English isn’t her first language, so she asks me to order. I’ve never done it before since I am only fifteen.

Worker: “Hi, what can I get for you today?”

Me: “Um, can we have two veggie burgers, large fries, and a small soda?”

Worker: “Sure, would you like to add another soda to make that a combo meal?”

I don’t actually know what a combo meal is, and I turn to my mom and ask in Chinese. She didn’t hear the worker and has no idea what I’m talking about.

Me: “Um, I don’t know? No, thanks.”

Worker: “Okay, then. That’ll be [total].”

After we got our food, I checked the receipt and realized that two combo meals were added to our order and they actually saved us money. Thanks to that worker for helping us out!

This story is part of our Feel Good roundup for November 2020!

Read the next Feel Good roundup story!

Read the Feel Good roundup for November 2020!

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Bench This Beach Bum!

, , , , | Working | November 23, 2020

During the summer, I regularly visit the shore. I buy my seasonal beach tag at the town hall and walk to the boardwalk. As I approach the stairs down to the beach, I am immediately stopped by the guard there.

Guard #1: “Sir, you can’t enter the beach without a valid beach tag. You do not have a valid beach tag.”

Me: “Yes, I do have one.”

Guard #1: “You can’t come in without a beach tag. You do not have a valid beach tag.”

Me: “It’s on my shirt. I just bought it fifteen minutes ago.”

I point to the clearly-visible tag.

Guard #1: “You can’t come in without a beach tag. You do not have a valid beach tag.”

Me: *Pulling the tag off* “Then please tell me what this is.”

I hold the tag practically in his face. The guard studies the tag for a moment.

Guard #1: “You can’t come in without a beach tag. You do not have a valid beach tag.”

I give up at that point and go to a different entrance further up the boardwalk.

Guard #2: “May I see your beach tag, sir?”

I show her the tag.

Me: “Is this a valid beach tag?”

She studies the tag and then hands it back to me.

Guard #2: *Confused* “Yes, of course. This is perfectly valid. Why would you think it isn’t?”

Me: “The other guard told me it wasn’t.”

Guard #2: “No, you’re fine! Like I said, this is perfectly valid!” *Pause* “Wait, by any chance, that wasn’t the guard at [First Entrance Location] was it?”

Me: “Yes, it was.”

Guard #2: “You know, you’re not the first person he’s done that to. I’m his supervisor, so I’ll talk to him when I get a chance. Here, I’ll also give you the customer care team’s number if you’d like to file a complaint.”

I called the number on my cell and explained everything to the rep on the other side, who assured me that he would be dealt with. When I left four hours later, a different guard was stationed at the entrance where the supervisor was. As I walked past the entrance where the first guard was, I saw him, his supervisor, and what looked like their boss in a heated discussion, which ended with the first guard storming off. I assume that he was fired, because it’s been three years and I haven’t seen him once in several trips to the shore since then.

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You’re Getting Sleeeeepy… TOO Sleepy!

, , , , , | Healthy | November 19, 2020

I used to volunteer with my township’s all-volunteer first aid squad. One day, we receive a call to respond to the house of a couple in their sixties.

Wife: “My husband isn’t acting right and I’m having trouble waking him up.”

Upon arriving at the house, my partner and I walk into the spare bedroom where the husband has been taking a nap. He is extremely lethargic and we have trouble even getting him to answer any questions. It looks just like an overdose. My partner starts providing care to the patient.

I turn to the wife.

Me: “Can you please show me the medications he’s taking?”

Among other things, he has been taking a sedative. I immediately pour them out on the kitchen table and count them. I look at the bottle and see that it is a new prescription. There are only one or two pills missing. I gather all the pill bottles into a bag and hand it to the wife.

Me: “Please bring this bag with you to the hospital.”

We transport the patient to the hospital. About fifteen minutes after that, something in my brain pops. I am familiar with the pills that the man is taking, as this isn’t the first time I’ve had to dump and count the pills in a bottle. Something about them was not right. The typical dosage is 0.25 mg or 0.5 mg. His pills seemed bigger than any others I had ever counted.

Never have I called a patient or family after transport, but today, I do. I call the wife.

Me: “[Wife], can you please pull the bottle of [sedative] out of the bag and read off the dosage size for me?”

It’s a full 2.0 mg!

Wife: “My husband’s regular doctor has been out of town, so he went to the covering physician, who gave him the prescription.”

Me: “What is his regular dosage?”

Wife: “It should have been 0.25 mg.”

Her husband received an overdose of eight times his usual dosage! I told her to report this information to the emergency room.

Yes, errors are made sometimes. But there are many checks and balances in medicine. One of the biggest ones is when a pharmacist reviews a medication and dosage for appropriateness. In this case, the doctor made a huge error in prescribing the wrong dosage. But the pharmacist should have caught it and clarified with the doctor before filling the prescription. Not doing so could have killed the husband.

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