I had a wisdom tooth taken out on a Friday. On Saturday, I had trouble opening my mouth, and the pain was getting worse. At the time, I thought it wasn’t that bad; surely it wasn’t unusual to have pain after removing a tooth. During the evening, I couldn’t eat, I could barely drink, and all I wanted was to go to bed and sleep as I waited for it to get better.

Come Sunday, I woke up with a large swelling under my chin, pushing in toward my throat as I lay down. I had difficulties swallowing my saliva, which disturbed my breathing. After some quick Googling, I knew I was supposed to contact my dentist, but they weren’t open on Sundays. I then searched for dentists to contact for an emergency; all of them were only open on weekdays.

The next step was to call a healthcare clinic that was open evenings and weekends. I explained my situation to the receptionist.

Receptionist: “You know, you are supposed to go to a dentist.”

Me: “Yes, but they are closed today.”

Receptionist: “There are emergency dentists.”

Me: “Yes, well, where do I find those? Because all emergency times I found for dentists were on weekdays.”

I heard the receptionist tapping away on her computer.

Receptionist: “I suppose I’ll have to book a time for you here.”

After that, the conversation went as normal and I got a time not too far away.

When I met the doctor, I could see her shock as she saw my swelling. After questioning, she said she’d call a specialist for advice, so I went to wait. When she called me back in, she had good news! At least, so she said. It is common to be swollen after removing a wisdom tooth. They decided to give me some antibiotics just to be safe and said to visit my dentist during the week if it didn’t get better.

Me: “Can I get anything for the pain?”

Doctor: “No, I’m sorry, the regular painkillers you are already using are all you can get. The only thing stronger I could give you is morphine, and it wouldn’t work for this kind of pain.”

I felt tears streaming down my cheeks at that point, as I didn’t know how I’d survive another day with this.

Doctor: *Looking sympathetic* “It will get better soon. This is the worst part.”

I couldn’t handle it, though. My husband had to wake me up if I rolled onto my back as the swelling otherwise hindered my breath, and I never slept more than half an hour before I was awoken by the pain, having to let saliva drip out of my mouth (I couldn’t swallow or spit properly) to clear the way for air, or just because of coughing, as if the rest wasn’t enough.

So, I got up in the middle of the night, called the national number for medical advice, and waited for my turn.

Medical Advisor: “Hello. How can I help you?”

I recapped the whole situation.

Me: “…I don’t know if I can do this anymore. It hurts.”

I was crying my eyes out at that point.

Medical Advisor: “I see, but you met a doctor today, and I know you have no issues breathing. You can say several words to me without pause. You can probably go and see your dentist tomorrow; it isn’t many hours left, after all. Take some painkillers. There are fluid versions.”

Me: “I only have pills, and I’ve taken those already.”

Medical Advisor: “So, you can swallow pills.”

Me: “I have to. I have medicine I cannot miss.”

Medical Advisor: “It sounds like you are going to be fine. Just try and get some sleep.”

I stayed up and got an emergency time for my dentist’s clinic in the morning. I did not meet my own dentist but a coworker of his. She could see that I had a very hard time, and she had to take some pictures. You know those pictures and X-rays they take at the dentist? You have to get this thing into your mouth which cuts into the top and bottom of your mouth. In normal cases, they are uncomfortable. At that time, they were torture.

The dentist took the smallest ones she could find, and as I was unable to open my mouth much, she had to get it in and then turn it in my mouth before running to the button, taking the picture, and then running back to let me free of it. It was a whole ordeal, and I’ve never been in so much pain at the dentist. I was crying and screaming.

Dentist: “Well, there is nothing there that I can help with. I’d say you should get to the emergency room. Getting you on antibiotics was the right thing, but I believe you should get a few of those doses directly into the vein. Tell them I said that.”

So, cue waiting at the emergency room. For some reason, first, I had to take a number, and then I had to explain the whole thing to the receptionist in order to meet a nurse. The nurse said I needed to get another number and tell the receptionist I needed time with a doctor but that I might not be put in the hospital as the dentist wanted. So, then, I had to start over with the whole waiting process.

Finally, I got to meet a doctor, who examined me.

Emergency Doctor: “We’ll get you a bed. I think you should get one dose directly into your vein, and our specialist wants an X-ray just to be sure there isn’t anything else before we send you home.”

They took their tests and gave me some antibiotics, and I got to go in one of those CT scan tubes. Eventually, the specialists came in to talk to me and my husband.

Specialist: “So, we’ve been looking at your scan, and I understand you’ve been fasting?”

Me: “Yes. The last time I ate was Saturday, and I had some to drink yesterday.”

Specialist: “That is good. We will need to operate, and we’ll want to do it as soon as possible.”

There were a lot of details discussed about why and how, which I won’t bother you with, but suddenly, everything went fast. I had to do the pre-operation shower, and they got a room to operate in after only a few hours. As soon as they got the green light, I was rushed over there. It is still a bit of a blur, as I wasn’t really prepared for the urgency after having been shot down so many times when trying to get help.

I spent the next day on a respirator to protect my airways, and I spent a week in the hospital, during which I went from only drinking clear fluids to slowly being able to eat. Several weeks later, I still have difficulties opening my mouth for bigger bites.

One thing that still bugs me, though, is that call in the middle of the night, where I was told that I had no issues breathing since I was able to talk. Shortly after I was back from intensive care, another girl close to my age arrived at the hospital. She couldn’t speak, she was swollen in the throat, she had difficulties breathing, and she could only swallow pills with a lot of help. Of course, I don’t know why, but it turned out that she only needed a couple of doses of antibiotics to get a lot better. Perhaps her issues were worse while the source of them was less so, or perhaps she allowed herself to be just as weak as I felt.

So, to the medical advisor: not all issues manifest in the same way or with the same signs of urgency. Also, some people, like me, fight through the pain to communicate and receive medication in order to, hopefully, make it better. People are different; please understand that if you are to advise them!

I am sitting at the train station, waiting inside before going to catch my bus. A man comes up to me, and I know he’ll beg for money as I recognise him.

Man: “Can you spare some money?”

Me: “No, I’m sorry.”

Not only am I a student with very little income, but I also do not have any cash as cash isn’t valid in most stores anymore.

Man: “Please, I need some money.”

Me: “I don’t have any cash, sorry.”

Man: “I know you do!”

This goes back and forth a couple of times, and I am starting to feel threatened as he hangs closer and closer over me. I don’t know why, but I end up taking out my wallet, opening it, and showing him that I have no cash whatsoever.

Me: “See, no cash!”

Man: *Pointing at my debit card* “You can take out money and give me.”

I hurriedly put my wallet back into my bag.

Me: “No, you can’t take out bills less than a hundred.”

Man: “You can give me that!

Me: “No!”

Having gotten my things in order, I stood up and hurried away, with him yelling after me that I had money. The truth was that if I had given him 100, I’d have given him more than a third of the money in my account.

I have later understood from others who try to get me to give money to charity that I look like someone who has money. My coat apparently looks expensive; however, I got it on sale, and the price was lowered further because the pocket was damaged and had to be sewn. My jewellery, which costs less than 100 SEK (around 10 USD or 8 GBP), apparently looks like it should cost at least a thousand. It’s made of plastic!

I am quite tired of people trying to guilt me for not giving of what little I have to every poor person and charity out there, but he will always be remembered as the scariest one.

When I was eleven years old, my little brother, my mum, and I were on our way home from a day at Mum’s workplace. We waited at the bus station and got on our bus, and a few minutes later, we got off at the bus stop.

We were supposed to switch buses, but when we got off, I heard my brother tell Mum he felt dizzy. Then, he threw up on the ground. Mum hurried him to a flower bed and he puked even more there. I didn’t know what to do, so I just stood there.

Mum: “Honey, I need you to go into the grocery store and get me some napkins and a bag. I’ll call us a taxi.”

I ran into the grocery store and got the napkins (which were free) and a bag. Then, I ran toward the checkout.

Cashier: “You gotta pay for that, kid!”

I am short, and she could just barely see the top of my shoulders from behind the register.

Me: *Holding out my credit card* “I was about to.”

Cashier: “But you can’t just buy a bag! You have to buy something else with it!”

Me: “Look, first, my brother just threw up outside the store, and I need this bag! Second, it’s not a crime to buy a bag without something else.”

Cashier: “But still, you gotta buy something with the bag! You can’t just buy the bag!”

I pointed to a large sign above my head that said, “Bag = [amount] kroner, with or without items,” or something like that.

Me: “As you can see, I can.”

The cashier then reluctantly proceeded to scan the bag, muttering something to herself.

Cashier: *Grumpily* “Anything else with that?”

Me: “No, thanks!”

The cashier then plastered a smile on her face.

Cashier: “Have a nice day!”

Me: *Smirking* “You, too!”

I read this story and came to think of mandelkubbar, a traditional and very tasty Swedish cookie that gets its distinctive flavour from bitter almonds, an almond that contains benzaldehyde and cyanide. Ten almonds are a lethal dose for a child, but you use like five almonds for twenty cookies. 

I worked in a student café that also did catering. We got an order for a huge amount of traditional cookies, among them 240 mandelkubbar that I had to make. I was almost done hand-grating roughly 100 bitter almonds into the dough when our new hire from the US passed by, snatched a handful of bitter almonds from my pile of not-yet-grated almonds, popped them in her mouth, and started to chew. Her eyes bulged and she nearly vomited from the abhorrent taste.

Most of the following is in English; [New Hire] doesn’t speak Swedish.

Me: “What on Earth are you doing?”

New Hire: “What are you doing?”

Me: “What?”

New Hire: “What kind of rancid f****** almonds are you putting in the cookies?”

Me: “Bitter almonds. They are not for eating like that.”

New Hire: “No, that’s f****** poison!”

Me: “It’s not poison! They’re supposed to taste like that.”

[Colleague], who is really bad at reading the room, spoke up.

Colleague: “Fun fact! They are poisonous! They contain a high dose of hydrogen cyanide, which—”

New Hire: *To me* “So, you are putting poison into the cookies! F****** psychopath!”

Me: “No, wait! Stop—”

But it was too late. She thwomped the bowl of cookie dough with a swift punch, and my precious cookie dough landed face-down on the floor. I stood dumbfounded at the wasted work and the sheer stupidity of it all. My manager burst into the room.

Manager: “What the f*** is going on?”

New Hire: “He puts poison in the cookies! He wants to poison our guests!”

Me: “I am not poisoning anyone, you idiot! Mandelkubbar are supposed to taste like that!”

Manager: “Wait, is this about the bitter almonds?”

New Hire: “He puts cyanide in the cookies!”

Manager: *To me, in Swedish* “Can you go buy new bitter almonds? I’ll talk to you when you get back.” *To [Colleague], in Swedish* “Can you clean up and get a new dough going?” *To [New Hire], in English* “Come with me. We need to talk.”

We all did as we were told, and I got a chance to cool off.

[New Hire] had been fired when I returned; she had refused to acknowledge that she’d done anything even slightly wrong. We laughed it off, I grated a further hundred almonds, and the mandelkubbar turned out perfect.

My manager and I were having a few cookies and a cup of coffee when a pair of confused police officers marched into the café.

Police Officer: “Do you work here?”

Manager: “I am the manager. How can I help?”

Police Officer: “Well, we need to inspect your café, and—”

Me: “Is this about an accusation that we are putting poison in our cookies?”

Police Officer: “I cannot tell why we are here. But… are you putting poison in the cookies?”

Me: *Laughs* “Technically, yes. Did you know that mandelkubbar are poisonous?”

We recounted the story. The officers did some kind of inspection and ended up leaving with a pair of mandelkubbar each, giggling about the absurdity of it all.

Related:
Maybe Almond Extract Would Be Better?

I burned my hand quite severely on cooking oil in a freak accident while working as a chef. I got quick help from the local hospital that saved my fingers, and I got some paid sick leave for a couple of months to recuperate. The nurse who took care of my poor hand said that I needed to get the wound redressed every day until someone told me otherwise. 

I decided to use the time to visit some friends and relatives in the capital, to catch up while my hand healed. I went to a local clinic to get my wounds redressed. The line moved with the speed of a stoned slug, but after a few eons, it became my turn.

Part of the story is that I have a very “rural” west-Swedish accent that, despite my best efforts, is very pronounced and makes me sound like something of a yokel. 

Me: “Hi! I need my hand redressed.”

Receptionist: “Do you have an appointment?”

Me: “No, unfortunately not. I’m not from here; I’m from [Town]. So—”

Receptionist: *Snorts* “Well, you need an appointment.”

Me: “Well… I can’t. I don’t live here, and I need my hand redressed. I thought that you maybe could help me?”

Receptionist: “We are very busy here. You can’t just barge in and demand healthcare.”

Me: “I’m not demanding. I’m sorry if it seems that way. I am just visiting here to see some friends since I cannot work right now. According to my nurse in [Town], my hand needs redressing every day.”

Receptionist: *In a condescending tone* “Well, maybe she should’ve checked with someone before telling you that?”

Me: “What?”

Receptionist: “How can she know that?”

Me: “Um… well… she was the one who bandaged my wound after my burn incident, after the doctor concluded that I didn’t suffer nerve damage.”

Receptionist: “Okay, then. Maybe they should also do the redressing, then? We are very busy.”

Me: “I’m… not currently in [Town]. I’m here. In front of you. And I need healthcare.”

Receptionist: “Go to the emergency room if you need urgent care. We can’t help with that.”

Me: “Look, I don’t need urgent care. I just need what I think is a standard procedure, just a simple redressing. I am sure that any one of your nurses could do this in the blink of an eye. I’ve heard good things about this place.”

Receptionist: “I’m suuure you have.”

There was an awkward silence.

Me: “Okay… Well, I have brought a book and can sit here for the rest of the day until someone — anyone — has time for me. I’m not in a hurry.”

Receptionist: “Oh, you brought a book? How good for you!”

More awkward silence.

Me: “Do you think you can help me?”

Receptionist: “Well, I’m not a nurse, am I?”

I was stunned by her absolute disregard for my need for help.

She was the only receptionist on duty, and this had taken a lot of time. A white-clad nurse came marching in to see what the hold-up was since patients were complaining that they could not register their arrival due to the “discussion”.

Nurse: “Is there a problem here?”

Receptionist: “This man just refuses to leave.”

Nurse: *Turning to me* “If you have been asked to leave, why are you still here?”

Me: *Exasperated* “She hasn’t told me that! Look, mate.”

I held my very bandaged hand in front of her.

Me: “I came here to ask for a simple redressing. It is a burn wound, and my nurse in [Town] told me that it needed to be redressed every day without fault. I trust people in white when they tell me stuff like that. Is it possible for me to have this redressed? I can wait the whole day, if needed.”

Nurse: “Well, of course, we can do that.”

She looked confusedly at the receptionist.

Nurse: “[Receptionist], what is the problem?”

Receptionist: “HE HASN’T GOT AN APPOINTMENT”

Nurse: “Well, duh, he’s obviously from [Town], and that is halfway across the Kingdom.” *To me* “I’ve got time. Come!”

The receptionist yelled something like, “You need an appointment!” after us, but the sound was cut off by the nurse and me going into a spare room. She quickly found that the wound was REALLY complicated and asked me to wait.

She returned with an ancient nurse who probably took care of Odin after his eye was removed. She in turn asked for permission to fetch some students; this severe burn wound was apparently some kind of great learning opportunity. My wound was redressed with great skill under the gaze of no less than two nurses, one young doctor (AT-läkare), six nurse students, and two doctor students. I had apparently caught them during a freak window where most of the staff had little to do; a lot of patients had cancelled their appointments at the last minute that day, and the students had no documentation to catch up with.

I got formal, actual appointments with the nurse for the rest of my three-week stay, with longer breaks between the redressings as the wound healed. She instructed a few of the nurses on how to redress the wound every time, and I gave them recipes and cooking tricks in return. The receptionist glared at me with murderous intent every time.

On the last day, I asked the Ancient Wise One:

Me: “Hey, what’s up with the receptionist?”

Ancient One: “It would be unprofessional for me to talk about the private life of a colleague.”

Me: “Fair enough.”

Ancient One: “But she often talks about when she dated a man from [Town], about your age and with your accent, some twenty years ago. He crushed her heart when she discovered that she was the side piece, and she tells us at least once a week that men from [Town] are the least trustworthy men on the face of the planet. But it is just common knowledge that men like you are very treacherous.” *Winks*

My fingers healed up without even a scar. I can’t see that they were ever damaged, and I invested in slip-proof shoes for usage on the job.