(I’ve been sick this past week and I go to the clinic at nine am. They tell me they will call in the prescription at ten am. At two pm, I go to check the prescription.)

Pharmacist: “I have no prescription here under your name.”

Me: “The clinic said it would be ready by ten am. Let me call them.”

(I call the clinic.)

Me: “Hello. I have a prescription that hasn’t been put through yet. I need to make sure I am at the right pharmacy.”

(I am promptly transferred without a word to the women’s clinic line, which is the incorrect department. I am instructed to leave a message, as the nurses are out to lunch.)

Me: “Um, hi. I am [My Name]. I was just wondering where my prescription was sent. It’s not at the pharmacy and—” *I cough and my head immediately begins to ache terribly. I sniffle and tear up* “—if you could please help me that’d be nice.”

(I hang up and go home. At three pm I go to the clinic to verify the location of the pharmacy. They tell me the order has been sent, and to wait a couple hours. I go home yet again. At five pm I get a call from the women’s clinic number at which I left the message.)

Nurse: “Hello, is this [My Name]? You left a message a couple hours ago.”

Me: “Yes. I’m sorry, I was trying to find out where my prescription was. I already checked back with the clinic and they told me where the prescription would be.”

Nurse: “Everything’s all right, though? This is the wrong department for your call, but since you’ve had the prescription filled…”

Me: “Well… no… I called the pharmacy and the prescription still hasn’t been ordered yet.”

Nurse: “Oh. Let me get on that. I’ll make sure they get it filled out.”

Me: “Okay.”

Nurse: “I will call you back in a minute, sweetie.”

(The nurse hangs up and calls back a few minutes later.)

Nurse: “Okay, I’ve gotten them to fill out your prescription and the pharmacy should have it soon. You are taking [Medicine], which is two pills twice a day. No matter how bad it is, take all of them. You can take decongestants and ibuprofen to deal with the congestion and pain. And, honey, popsicles are your best friends. Drink lots of fluids and warm tea, and get plenty of rest.”

(At this point, the nurse’s concern has caused me to tear up.)

Me: “Thank you so much! I’ve been dealing with this for a week.”

Nurse: “You just sound so sick, sweetie. I called the pharmacy and told them to work extra quick on your order. The pharmacist’s name is [Name]. She’ll have your prescription ready as soon as she can.”

Me: “Thank you.”

Nurse: “You feel better, honey.”

(To that nurse: You had me sobbing. You cared so much and it wasn’t even your department. You helped me and told me more about my medicine than the doctor in the CORRECT department did. I’m so grateful there are people as nice as you working in the women’s clinic!)

Related:
Why Nurses Should Rule The World, Part 3
Why Nurses Should Rule The World, Part 4
Why Nurses Should Rule The World, Part 5  

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(I am in first grade. A boy steps on my finger during recess. It hurts a lot, and I can’t move it, so I go to the school nurse.)

Me: “Mrs. [Nurse], somebody stepped on my finger and it hurts. I can’t really move it.”

(It is very painful, but I am not really showing the pain beyond a grimace.)

Nurse: “Let’s have a look at it.”

(She examines my finger, manipulating it, looking at the way the bones are aligned, and looking for swelling and bruising, which are there. Of course, this hurts like h***, but I don’t scream. It’s an easy diagnosis though.)

Nurse: “…well, it looks like it’s bruising a little, so I’ll give you an ice pack.”

Me: “It really hurts. Are you sure it’s not something more than bruising?”

Nurse: “I’m sure, honey. Remember, you’re just in first grade and I’m a nurse. I know what I’m doing. It’s just a little bruise. Stop worrying and go to class.”

(Over my objections, she gives me an ice-pack and sends me to class, where I still can’t move the finger. It has swelled up and bruised even more by the time I get home.)

Me: *walking in* “Mom! I’m home!”

Mom: *sees my finger immediately* “Oh God! What happened!?”

Me: “Oh, someone stepped on it at recess. I can’t move it.”

Mom: “Let me see it.”

(My mom only got to 7th grade in school. She has no medical training whatsoever.)

Mom: “It’s obviously broken! Why didn’t you go to the nurse?”

Me: “I did. She said it was just bruised.”

Mom: “Just bruised my a**! The bone’s out of place, you can’t move it, and it’s swelled up to twice its size!”

(She takes me to the ER, where they find a huge fracture in the finger. By now, it has gone numb from nerve damage. They tell us that the delay in treatment has worsened it, and I will need surgery. The next day, my mother goes for a meeting with the principal and the nurse.)

Mom: “How could you not realize her finger was severely broken? Didn’t the bones look weird? No swelling? Nothing?”

Nurse: “Well, yes, the bones looked a little misaligned, and there was definitely swelling and some bruising.”

Mom: “Was she moving it?”

Nurse: “No, she said she couldn’t, but I came to the conclusion that it was just bruised.”

Mom: “WHY?!”

Nurse: “…because she wasn’t showing enough pain.”

Mom: “WHAT KIND OF A NURSE ARE YOU?!”

Nurse: “Excuse me?”

Mom: “You saw all the symptoms of a broken finger and you ignored them because she didn’t show enough pain?”

Nurse: “Yes…”

Mom: “So you’re saying that her not being able to move it, the fact that the bone was out of place, the bruising, the swelling, none of that counted because she didn’t show enough pain?”

Nurse: “Yes…”

Mom: “And you see nothing wrong with that?”

Nurse: “No…”

Mom: “Even I could tell it was broken! She has nerve damage and a severe fracture! The delay in treatment worsened it! You should’ve called an ambulance, not sent her back to class! You’ve caused serious damage to her through your neglect!”

Nurse: “But she wasn’t showing enough pain!”

Mom: “I never thought I’d say this, but lady, I am suing your a**.”

(I have since grown up and gotten extensive medical training. Thankfully, I can diagnose a broken finger.)

(I’m 18, and have been hospitalized for a severe case of mono. As a result of the illness, my throat is badly swollen and I can hardly speak. I’m on lots of painkillers. I’m sharing a room with a boy who swallowed a rock. The boy has been screaming since his mother left and his father can’t quiet him down.)

Nurse: “Okay, [My Name], I’m just going to check your vitals.”

Me: *whispering* “How much longer until I can have more pain medication?”

Nurse: “Not for a while, sweetie.”

(The nurse leaves. The boy’s father has been watching us the whole time.)

Boy’s Father: “Listen, you little b****! Don’t you f****** gossip about me to the f****** nurses! You keep your f****** mouth shut, or I’ll shut it for you!”

(I’m stunned, as I haven’t said a word to or about him. As I can’t move and can barely speak, I’m in tears and terrified. Not long after, my mom comes in to visit.)

Mom: “Hey, [My Name]. How are you doing?”

Me: *crying and whispering* “Mom, the dad of that boy screamed at me. He said to shut up, or he’d shut me up.”

(My mom is silent, but clearly fuming. She leaves for a moment.)

Boy’s Father: “WHAT DID I SAY?!”

(Just then, my mom comes back with security in tow.)

Mom: “Escort him from hospital grounds NOW.”

Boy’s Father: “B****! You can’t tell me what to do! You aren’t the boss here! I’m twenty-f******-five!”

Mom: “Actually, I AM the boss here! It’s my day off, but I’m head nurse on this floor, and if you EVER speak to my daughter ever again, I will have you arrested so fast that you won’t ever hear the sirens! And by the way, I’m forty-freaking-eight and I have the good sense not to let my kids eat rocks!”

(The man was removed from hospital grounds and was banned from re-entering for 48 hours unless it was an emergency. I have the best mom in the world.)

Related:
Why Nurses Should Rule The World, Part 2
Why Nurses Should Rule The World, Part 3
Why Nurses Should Rule The World, Part 4

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(My five-year-old son has received a serious injury to his eye. After a pediatrician recommends us to an eye doctor, we are referred to a specialist that works out of a university two hours away from home.)

Nurse: “These are all the contact numbers you should need. I also went online for some directions, and called ahead to let them know it should only be a few hours.”

Son: “I don’t want to.”

Nurse: “What’s the matter?”

Son: *visibly getting upset* “I’m scared.”

Nurse: “But you’ve been so brave this whole time! How about this: if you go see the new doctor, I’ll give you my phone number and you can call me if you get too upset, okay?”

(The nurse writes down her work extension and cell phone number on a piece of paper and adds it to my paperwork, insisting that I feel free to call if I have any problems or questions. My son stays calm all the way to the university and through the appointment with the specialist until we’re told he’s going to need surgery. Crying and upset, he begs me to call the nurse from the clinic.)

Me: *on the phone* “I’m so sorry to bother you, I know you’re still working, but he’s really upset and asked to talk to you.”

(I put the phone on speakerphone so my son, crying on the exam table, can hear.)

Nurse: “Hey, buddy! What’s wrong?”

Son: *crying* “The doctor here wants to give me surgery!”

Nurse: “There’s nothing wrong with that. It’ll make your eye all better. You’ll be able to see again, like we talked about.”

Son: “But I’m scared! It’s going to hurt!”

Nurse: “Of course it’s not going to hurt. That nice doctor wouldn’t hurt you!”

Son: “Have you been given surgeries?”

Nurse: “Yeah, kiddo, a few.”

Son: “And you came back to life?”

Nurse: “Every single time.”

Son: “Promise?”

Nurse: “Swear.”

(My son has calmed down considerably throughout the conversation, and there’s not a dry eye in the room.)

Son: “Okay…”

Nurse: “See? I knew you were brave.”

Son: “Thank you! Love you!”

Nurse: *laughing* “Love you, too.”

(I thanked the nurse a thousand times, and she insisted I call her ASAP to let her know how the surgery went. Later that day, she texted us a picture of herself and her family with a ‘GET WELL SOON’ sign they made for my son!)

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(My grandmother has macular degeneration and is partially blind as a result. I often call to schedule her doctor’s appointments for her since she has a hard time dialing the phone.)

Nurse: “Okay, now what is your grandmother’s date of birth?”

Me: “May 25, 1918.”

Nurse: “Alright, now is there any possibility that she’s pregnant?”

Me: “No.”

Nurse: “Are you absolutely sure that your grandmother is not pregnant?”

Me: “Well, since she went through menopause in the early 1970s, lost her husband in the late 1980s and just celebrated her 94th birthday, I can say with confidence that she is not pregnant.”

Nurse: *indignantly* “You never said she was in her 90s!”