Our store is across the street from a nursing home. Almost every day, we see an older couple come into the store to just look around. They go through the same routine every day, and they don’t really buy anything, but we don’t mind. 

The husband comes over to me one day after we make eye contact and I smile at him a little.

Husband: “I wanted to say thanks for letting us come in every day. It really means the world to us.”

Me: “Oh, it’s no bother at all. I’m sure there are nicer places to visit than this little old store, though!” 

Husband: “Well, it’s for my wife. She has trouble remembering these days, but we always used to come to this store together every Tuesday, and she’d work through her list, thinking up all the dinners she’d feed us all week until the next Tuesday. She doesn’t remember who I am most days, but every time we come in here, it’s suddenly Tuesday, and she gets all excited about the dinners she wants to make.”

Me: “Oh… I… I don’t know what to say.” 

Husband: “Nothing to say. I just wanted to say thank you.”

His wife walked past with a list in her hand, smiling and calling her husband over to help her choose a cereal.

Every day for the next year, we’d see them reliving her Tuesdays, happy with her list, until one day we didn’t see them for a while. He came back a few weeks later to tell us that his wife was grocery shopping in Heaven now, and he couldn’t wait to try some of the meals she was cooking up for him one day.

We all loved him for how much he loved her.

My manager and I are working the overnight shift at a twenty-four-seven fast food joint in a neighborhood that doesn’t have the best reputation.

A guy walks in and asks for the cheapest combo we have. I ask for the total, and he’s thirty-seven cents short. I explain this.

Customer: “C’mon, man! It’s the middle of the night. Just let it slide.”

Me: “Sorry, sir, I can’t offer any discounts.” 

Customer: “It’s only a few cents! No one will notice.”

Me: “I’ll be short at the end of my shift, and I’ll get written up.” 

Customer: “So, your write-up is more important than me going hungry?”

Me: “Look, I can get you some fries for [small amount], and I’ll throw in some extra for you, but I can’t sell you [combo] unless you have the full amount.”

My manager walks over as he’s noticed the customer getting agitated. He explains the same things that I have, and the customer gives us a big “F*** you!” and storms out.

Less than half an hour later, the next shift has arrived, and during the overlap, my manager and I get a break. We usually grab some food and go sit in his old car together, which has been parked to the side of the store for as long as I can remember. (He drives a newer and nicer car, but due to reasons too long and boring to list here, he’s been allowed to keep his old car in that parking spot for a few months.)

As we’re eating our dinner and talking, the customer from before spots us, storms over, and dramatically throws himself over the hood of the car.

Customer: “What the f***, man! You trying to kill me?!”

Manager: “What the h*** are you doing?! Go away!”

Customer: “I’m callin’ the police! You tried to kill me!”

Me: “Oh, my God! Is this all because you didn’t get a burger?!” 

The customer — who, at this point, we suspect is high on something — actually calls 911 and claims we tried to run him over. I’m getting a little worried, but my manager tells me to be patient and it’ll all be fine.

Two officers drive in about fifteen minutes later. (We’ve sat in the car finishing our food during this time.) The customer is quick to explain to them what happened. He’s even developed a little limp in the last fifteen minutes.

Then, the officers finally give my manager and me a chance to explain

Manager: “Officer, please, check the engine. I think you’ll find that it will prove that we didn’t hit the customer.”

Officer #1: “I’m not qualified to check an engine to confirm your testimony.” 

Manager: “Please, indulge me.”

My manager pops the hood, opens it, and lets the officer take a look. 

Officer #1: *To the customer* “Okay, sir, I think we’re done here.”

Customer: “What are you talking about?! Just because the engine isn’t running, it doesn’t mean—” 

Officer #1: “Take a look, sir.”

The customer steps forward… and sighs. 

There is no engine.

Manager: “It was taken out months ago to go to a more deserving car. This hunk of junk exists only as a place for me to take my breaks and listen to my music at full volume. We good here?” 

Officer #2: “We’re good. Feel free to go back inside, sir.”

Manager: “But first, I’d like to call the police about a customer who is causing a disturbance and has been known to lie to the police.”

Officer #2: “No need to make that call, sir. We can take it from here.” 

They escorted the customer off the premises. We never saw him again.

I’m a middle-aged woman, and I volunteer at my kids’ school library once a week. One time, the regular librarian was gone and there was a substitute librarian. I’m not sure where she was from, but her accent suggested a region of the world known for being homogenously Christian (as in, a different one other than Alabama). We were alone in the library and started chatting.

Substitute Librarian: “And you do this every week? You’re such an angel! I can surely tell that God sent you to this school to witness through your good works…”

She went on in that vein for a while, and I mostly just nodded and smiled; I was raised Christian, but I’m no longer exactly practicing. I don’t remember what her exact question was that led to this, but then we had the following exchange.

Me: “Then, my wife and I moved here—”

Substitute Librarian: “Your wife?”

Me: “Yep.”

Substitute Librarian: “You’re married to a woman?”

Me: “Yes.”

Substitute Librarian: “But you said you have kids! Were they…” *makes a weird hand gesture* “You know, needle babies?”

Me: “Oh! No, actually, my wife was my husband for fifteen years first, before she transitioned, so they’re our biological kids. She’s just a woman now.”

Substitute Librarian: “But… how?”

She seemed genuinely curious and more baffled than judgmental (and the library was still empty other than the two of us), so I ended up basically explaining Queer 101: how transitioning works, how you can be bisexual even when monogamous, how transitioning doesn’t actually change your genitalia unless you opt for additional surgery (which many trans people don’t, my wife included).

Normally, I don’t answer intrusive questions like that, but I think she legitimately had no idea that this whole world existed! In the end, her conclusion came down to:

Substitute Librarian: “Well, I still think you are a wonderful person doing God’s work. It’s good that you’re staying with your husband even though he’s… going through some things… because divorce is a sin and too many people just give up.”

Sigh… So close!

One of my kids is allergic to peanuts, tree nuts, sesame seeds, and their oils — oh, and garden peas — but not other legumes.

One school wanted to keep their EpiPens locked in a secure cabinet. Which was locked in a secure walk-in cupboard. Which was accessed via a secure strongroom that was always kept locked. Which opened off the Head’s Study. Which was locked whenever they weren’t in the room.

When I — and other parents of children with EpiPens — went and asked the Head and the Bursar how much the school was worth, they wanted to know why.

Me: “So we know how much to sue you for when one of our kids dies because people can’t find the keys in time.”

Suddenly, every classroom was issued with a secure medications cabinet, which was accessed either by entering a code on the pin-pad or hitting the big, red medical emergency alarm button above the cabinet. (It was beyond the reach of little kids, very loud and scary, and designed to summon help QUICKLY. It couldn’t be switched off without the special key, which was only issued to the Head, the Bursar, and the Secretary.)

This story takes place a few years back when I was doing a clinical rotation in phlebotomy for my degree in Medical Laboratory Science. I was placed in the Emergency Department of a local hospital, practicing poking patients and drawing their blood. All the staff knew that my snow-white scrubs meant I was a student, but some patients took them to mean I was a physician.

One night, I happened to walk by an exam room where an altercation was taking place between a patient and a very patient Registered Nurse. Altercations were a fairly common occurrence in the ED, but I was still pretty green so it was hard not to stop and listen in.

Nurse: “I’ve been doing this for thirty years, Mr. [Patient]. I can assure you—”

Patient: “I don’t care how long you’ve been doing this. I want a doctor to place my IV!”

Nurse: “Mr. [Patient], if you hold still, I promise I’ll have it in in a flash. You’ll hardly feel a thing.”

Patient: “Are you deaf or just stupid? I want…”

At that point, the man caught sight of me loitering in the hallway.

Patient: “I want her to place my IV!”

Me: *Flabbergasted* “But I can’t thread IVs. I only know how to draw blood.”

Nurse: “Sir, she’s just a student.”

This affront seemed to put the patient into overdrive, and he began slamming his fist on the bed rail and screaming for a doctor. The nurse quietly took me aside and asked me to go fetch one of the physicians on duty. I ran to get the kindest one, as I was afraid of getting snapped at by the other doctors working that night.

[Doctor] patiently listened to my explanation, wordlessly grabbed an IV kit out of the cupboard, and followed me to the patient’s room. We could hear the patient still throwing his tantrum as we walked down the hall. As soon as [Doctor] stepped into the room in his white coat, the patient switched it off like a light and breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

Patient: *With a smug smile at his nurse* “Finally!”

Doctor: *With a big friendly smile* “Hello, Mr. [Patient]! I hear you want a doctor to place your IV. Well, I haven’t done this since medical school, so that’s, what, twenty-five years ago now? I might be a little rusty, but I’m happy to give it a shot! Nurse, will you please position the patient’s head? I’m going for the jugular.”

Suddenly, the patient decided he didn’t want a doctor to place his IV after all, and the nurse with thirty years of experience placing IVs would do just fine.

Related:
Why Nurses Should Rule The World, Part 19
Why Nurses Should Rule The World, Part 18
Why Nurses Should Rule The World, Part 17
Why Nurses Should Rule The World, Part 16
Why Nurses Should Rule The World, Part 15