When I was in college, I picked up a job at a clinic; the doctor was a naturopath and a chiropractor. I didn’t really have the training, and mostly my job description was to scan patient files and upload them to an online site so [Doctor] could access stuff if he got a call while on vacation or if he was at his other location.
Because there were a TON of files to upload, and I had received no training on what they wanted me to do, I created my own process. Basically, I’d scan everything in, save it to a folder on the desktop, and then upload it to the correct patient file. I’d drop everything I’d scanned into a box at my feet, which was out of sight and out of easy reach of anyone not behind the counter, which barely had room for me and the receptionist. When the box got full, I’d go shred everything.
I kept things in the file on the desktop because the online system was free and a pain in the a**. I’d keep them accessible for when [Doctor] got annoyed and needed something right away. Don’t ask me why they thought a free system was going to function the way they wanted it to.
[Doctor]’s wife frequently came into the clinic, both to bring their kids in for appointments and just to check in on things.
One time, after I’d been there almost a year, she came in before my shift, and she needed to get onto my workstation for some reason. The workstation had a shared credential, so she logged on and saw my folder. When I got to work, she cornered me.
Wife: “Why do you have a folder on your desktop with all the documents?”
Me: “Because the online site is difficult to view things, so it’s just in case [Doctor] wants something right away. I showed him where it is if he needs it when I’m not here.”
Wife: “I don’t like that. It means that anyone can view those documents.”
While that was technically a valid point, I refrained from pointing out that everyone could technically see it on the website, anyway, if they knew what they were doing. And while they could, it was only if they knew the path, because I did have it nested under a few different ones; while the folder said, “Documents,” on the desktop, the actual files were under one that said, “Patients,” or something, and it was four levels deep.
Then, she moved on to what else I was apparently doing wrong.
Wife: “And why is this box here?”
Me: “That’s where I drop stuff once it’s been scanned. Then, when the box gets full, I go shred it.”
Wife: “Anyone can view these. Why is it sitting out here like that?”
Me: “It’s not out in the open; it’s around the corner and under the desk, there’s a lid on the box, and [Receptionist] and I are the only ones who work up here.”
Wife: “You need to be scanning everything and then shredding it as soon as you’re done. And delete that folder. You can’t save anything on the desktop.”
I didn’t bother to point out that that would take me five times as long since the shredder was a massive hunk of a beast and wouldn’t fit in our area to move it, which would have been the only logical way to make her request work in a way that didn’t involve a huge time sink.
I just sighed and changed things up to the way she wanted. A couple of weeks later, I got yelled at for taking so long to update files.
[Wife] kept trying to cut my hours and my paycheck was barely covering gas or bus fare to and from the clinic. (I was part-time, and when I started, I worked Monday through Thursday for about four hours a day; by the time we got to this, she’d cut me down to twice a week at four hours a day and wanted me to consider only working once a week.) And I kept getting in trouble for doing what she wanted. As a result of both of those things, I turned in my two weeks’ notice.
[Wife] happened to be onsite the day I gave my notice. She took one look at the letter I’d typed and said:
Wife: “Well, since you don’t want to be here anyway, you might as well just go home.”
The scary thing is that that wasn’t the worst job I’ve had.
