I work for a mail-order pharmacy. This is a call from my first day taking customer service calls on my own. As a note, we also function as a Prescription Benefits Manager, and part of our contract states we can only ship a medication if: one, you are a member of a plan we manage, and two, your plan is covering the medication in a claim. The conversation starts right after I have verified the member’s information.

Me: “Thank you, sir. How can I help you?”

Member: “I want to know why you canceled my order for [Little Blue Pill that helps with a certain male problem].”

Me: “Well, sir, looking at the order, it appears that your plan does not cover the medication. [Government Insurance] only covers this medication in patients over sixty-four under certain circumstances, and it looks like they denied the authorization based on the information the doctor gave us.”

Member: “My doctor wrote the d*** prescription!”

Me: “I understand that, sir, but your plan has denied the coverage. We cannot ship you a medication the plan will not cover. You would have to get it at the local pharmacy, but you will pay out of pocket—”

Member: “No! It costs me twenty f****** dollars a pill there! You fix it and send me my pills!”

Me: “Sir, I apologize, but I am unable to do that—”

Member: “WELL, HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO GET LAID NOW, MISSY?”

My trainer later told me she had to hold in laughter when she listened to that call. Unfortunately, things only got more colorful from there.

I was a sales representative back in the day when we wore suits and ties and carried briefcases. I noticed that my eyeglasses weren’t quite right, so I made an appointment with a doctor’s eye clinic in the same building where I had other sales meetings scheduled. I got a confirmation a couple of days prior with a cancelation warning.

I walked in at the time of my appointment. The receptionist glanced at me standing at the counter but left to do something behind a wall. (It sounded like photocopies.) Finally, she came back out. I started to say my name but was cut off.

Receptionist: “The doctor is busy right now.”

Me: “Should I wait?”

She just pointed to a chair. I waited a full hour (nowhere better to go) and the doctor came out. I stood up.

Receptionist: *To the doctor* “Your 3:00 never showed up.”

I spoke up and announced myself.

Me: “I’ve been waiting an hour.”

Receptionist: *To the doctor* “He’s just a peddler.”

Fast forward… I insisted the doctor see me now. He was late for a dinner date.

Related:
A Most Unreceptive Receptionist, Part 21
A Most Unreceptive Receptionist, Part 20
A Most Unreceptive Receptionist, Part 19
A Most Unreceptive Receptionist, Part 18
A Most Unreceptive Receptionist, Part 17

As a young child, I was prone to accidents. One day, I managed to pull a dresser over on top of myself. My mom took me to the emergency room and told the triage nurse I had a concussion.

Now, my mom was and is a registered nurse. The idiot ignored her and said that as long as I wasn’t vomiting, I would be fine, and to take me home.

Guess what I did as soon as she opened her mouth?

It’s late at night in the emergency department (ED) waiting room. I’m seated near a middle-aged man who’s been groaning and holding his side and an elderly Indian woman with a young man. The young man has a bandaged-up arm, and based on the woman’s conversations with staff, she’s hard of hearing and struggles with English.

The ED staff notify us that priority patients have just arrived from a car crash.

Groaning Man: “Ugh, this is absurd! I’ve been here for hours!”

Staff: “Sorry, sir, but they’re the priority.”

Groaning Man: “But… I got here first!”

Indian Woman: “You got here first? No one cares. Emergency room! Not first come, first serve — first dead, first serve!”

Groaning Man: “But…”

Indian Woman: “You want to be first dead? Then you can jump the line!”

Staff: “Ma’am… please don’t vaguely threaten other patients.”

Indian Woman: *To the young man with her* “What’s she say?”

He translates for her.

Indian Woman: “Oh. You want it less vaguely?”

I have a giant tumor in my abdomen and pelvis. I’m also fairly slim, so it’s noticeable. At this point, I’d had a biopsy, but they sent me for a CT scan to see if it had spread to my chest.

When you get a CT scan, they have all the little boxes you have to tick to say whether you’re pregnant or not because it could harm the baby. But also, I was there literally because of the giant tumor in my abdomen. I ticked the boxes that I was definitely not pregnant, date of last period, etc.

I went in and laid down on the table thing. The doctor looked at my face, at my abdomen, and at his papers, and then started shuffling through them. Again, he looked at my face, at my abdomen, and back at his papers…

I lay there thinking, “Please don’t. Surely it says it on there. Please don’t do this.”

And sure enough…

Doctor: “Are you sure you’re not pregnant?”

Me: “It’s a tumor.”

He looked horrified and apologized profusely, but I burst out laughing because it was so awkwardly funny. I felt terrible, so I kept apologizing back, but it was so hard trying to stop laughing at the absolute horror on his face.

I’m 100% sure that poor man will remember me for years to come, and I’m very sorry.

This has become a common theme in my life right now: people thinking I’m pregnant and me word-vomiting, “Actually, it’s a tumor.” It’s getting awkward, but if they’d stop commenting on strangers’ bodies…?

Related:
¡Que Embarazada!, Part 4
¡Que Embarazada!, Part 3
¡Que Embarazada!, Part 2
¡Que Embarazada!