Doesn’t Need A Bank Or A Post Office But A Hospital

, , , , , , | Healthy Right | January 19, 2019

(I have been helping a patron set up a direct debit.)

Me: “And is there anything else I can help you with today?”

Patron: “Yes, can I have a packet of first-class stamps?”

Me: “Oh, I’m afraid we don’t offer stamps, but there is a post office just down the road. Just head right as you step outside.”

(Her head does this awkward jerk and she looks around in confusion.)

Patron: “This isn’t a post office?”

Me: “No, it’s a bank.”

(She looks furious, but before she can say anything else, she collapses on the floor. I’m the closest first-aider so I go into action. The door security guard calls 999. It looks like she’s having an epileptic fit, so I try my best to work with my training. I check her handbag for an identity card, but can’t find one. The guard walks over and tells me EMTs are coming just as our manager answers the phone. He looks so confused, but he addresses us.)

Manager: “What’s her name?”

Me: “What? How is that relevant?”

Manager: “I’ve got one of the paramedics on the phone. She’s asking.”

Me: *confused* “[Patron].”

Manager: “It’s [Patron]…” *to me* “She says to put a cushion under her head and check her handbag.”

Me: “Already done. I couldn’t find anything. I don’t know if she’s epileptic.”

(He tells the paramedic.)

Manager: “Was there anything drug-related in the bag? Pills? She’s asking for a colour.”

(I grab the bag and check. There is a small, clear bag in one of the side pockets. I don’t touch it but I can see small, round tablets.)

Me: “They’re pink.”

Manager: “Pin– Oh, they’re already here.”

(Literally as he says this, the EMTs burst through the door, with the woman my manager was speaking to hanging up.)

EMT: “Sorry, once we knew it was [Patron], we knew we had to hurry.”

(I surrender her to the EMTs. After a few minutes and an IV, she comes around. She is laughing and quite jolly with them as they take her away on a gurney.)

EMT: “Thanks for the help. I’ll just need to ask some questions.”

Me: “Sure, but how did you know it was her?”

EMT: “Sweetie, I’ve lost count of the number of times we’ve been called out for her. Now we just take it as standard to call ahead when we’re told it’s a middle-aged woman.”

(I really have to commend them. I can’t imagine having to deal with the same woman time and time again as she slowly destroys herself.)

Can’t Even Blame This One On Pregnancy Brain

, , , , , , | Healthy Legal Right | January 18, 2019

(My coworker is examining pee samples for a patient. They need to pass the drug test to be able to drive a vehicle for work.)

Coworker: “[My Name], come look at this.”

(He hands me the pee sample and the results.)

Me: “Hmm, well, it says here Mr. [Last Name] is pregnant, so unless he’s trans and it’s not on file, I’d say he cheated.”

(I’d doubted anyone would be stupid enough to have a pregnant woman cheat for them but, as it turns out, he was.)

Just Kill Two Livers With One Drink And Make It An Espresso Martini

, , , , , , | Healthy Right | January 18, 2019

(I’m assisting our cardiologist today, rooming patients and doing EKGs and such. One patient comes in with a complaint of palpitations. I do an EKG on him which comes out normal, but there’s something off about this guy — he’s practically bouncing off the walls with nervous energy. The cardiologist goes in to see him and I move on to other patients. About half an hour later, they both come out and the patient leaves. The doctor comes over to me with a look of disbelief.)

Doctor: “That guy drinks eighty ounces of coffee a day. Eighty. Eight-zero.”

Me: “Holy cow. No wonder he was jitterier than a junebug.”

Doctor:And he says he drinks three liters of vodka a week!”

Me: “Oh, my gosh. His poor liver.”

Doctor: “So, obviously, I told him he needs to stop doing that. And you know what he said? He doesn’t want to stop, and he’d rather just take medication for the palpitations!”

He’s Got A Bad Case Of The Clap

, , , , | Healthy Right | January 9, 2019

(My husband is the customer in this one. He’s at his appointment to check his numbers for high blood pressure to see if he would be okay on his current prescription or not. While it’s important to note that he doesn’t have a hearing problem, he does tend to not listen, and sometimes it can be rather amusing.)

Doctor: “Now, breathe deeply.”

Husband: *does so*

Doctor: “Cough.”

Husband: “Clap?”

Doctor: “Cough.”

Me: “She said, ‘cough,’ dear.”

Husband: “Clap?” *claps*

(All three of us started laughing. The doctor admitted it made her day. I’ve teased him since about putting this online.)

BMI = Bad Model For Increase

, , , , , | Healthy | January 7, 2019

(At the end of seventh grade, I am sent home with a letter from the school nurse stating that my BMI is too high, I’m therefore overweight, and I need to be seen by my pediatrician. My pediatrician tells my mother that since I am extremely active, my diet is healthy, and my weight gain is obviously due to an impending growth spurt, to not worry about the weight for now. Over summer break I grow five inches taller. At this point, I’m looking rather scrawny, as it happens when children have large growth spurts. When school starts back up, I get called back into the school nurse’s office. She starts questioning me as to whether everything is all right at home, how is school, am I making friends, am I getting bullied, etc. She finally gets around to the point that she believes I have an eating disorder! I start laughing.)

Me: “Are you joking? I weigh 150 pounds! You said I was fat three months ago!”

School Nurse: “There is no way you weigh 150 pounds. You’ve obviously been starving yourself to get thin. It’s not healthy to do this to yourself.”

Me: “I’m a runner and play other sports. I grew five inches taller over the summer. I haven’t lost any weight. Got a scale? I’ll prove it.”

(I got on the scale and, lo and behold, I actually weighed 155 pounds. The school nurse thought there was something wrong with it and weighed herself. She weighed me again and realized that it was correct! She couldn’t resolve in her head that at 5’4” and 155 pounds I looked underweight due to my muscle mass versus body fat percentage. She called my mother, at which point my mother yelled at her to stopped harassing me about my weight or she was going to the principal over it.)

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