DISCLAIMER: This story contains content of a medical nature. It is not intended as medical advice.

Customer #1: “Excuse me. What’s the best painkiller you can recommend for some back pain?”

Me: “Well, the best thing for back pain would be to see a doctor, but as for muscle or nerve pain, you should take—”

Another customer interrupts after overhearing.

Customer #2: “No, you have spine cancer. Those won’t help you.”

Customer #1: “Excuse you, but I do not have spine cancer.”

Customer #2: “No, you do. My mom is a doctor, so I know these things. Have you tried tea tree essential oil? It—”

I knew I recognized this other customer!

Me: “You again! Get out! We’ve warned you about trying to convince customers to try to buy your oils. It was bad enough when it was in the parking lot, but now you’re stalking the medicine aisle! That’s it! I’m recommending that my manager ban you!”

Customer #2: “You’re just a pawn of big pharma! They want everyone to think they have to spend money on their chemicals and drugs!”

Customer #1: “You’re the one telling me that the back pain I got from a bad weightlifting gym session is spine cancer and can be cured using a scented oil! Go away and let me get my Tylenol!”

I sent [Customer #2] on her way, and my manager agreed with my recommendation to ban her.

When I was about ten, my father and I were fishing from a pier in Florida. There were people every few yards, so it was pretty crowded so early in the morning. I’d been fishing for a while so I knew a bit about it, even as young as I was.

There was another father-son duo behind us on the other side of the pier. Everybody talked to each other in those days, so it was a pleasant outing.

Suddenly, the kid, maybe five or six, got a bite, and his dad was helping him reel it in.

As soon as the fish came out of the water, the kid hollered:

Kid: “It’s a baby whale! Daddy, I caught a baby whale!”

All the people within earshot took notice and watched as the kid reeled in his first blowfish.

During PE (Physical Education or gym class) in my senior year of high school, the teacher decided we’d spend a couple of weeks learning about and playing baseball. I’d always enjoyed PE, and this particular teacher was great. He’d lay out the rules of various sports, have us practice drills for a few days, and then run two sets of games: one competitive and one for fun. We students were allowed to choose which we did; that way, we could be with classmates on our own skill levels. For example, during our volleyball session, I played on the fun side as I’m terrible at volleyball. When we did soccer, I played on the competitive side because I was on the school team.

When it came time to actually play baseball, the coach said that just for the first game, we would all play together (he split us into teams with equal amounts of “new” players and “experienced” players) so that he could pitch. He stressed that he wanted everyone to be able to hit the ball, so he would be very generous with pitching and calling a fair ball versus a foul or strike.

I approached him as we headed out to the baseball field and explained that I was especially terrible at hitting a ball. I literally struck out multiple times in tee ball, a younger child’s version of baseball where the ball is set in front of the hitter on a stationary tee. It’s hard to strike out as much as I did; I actually found out in adulthood that I have a mild eye condition that makes things like hitting baseballs and volleyballs difficult. But I had a solution! One of my classmates was on the school’s baseball team but had a sprained ankle. Meanwhile, I was captain of the school’s track and field team and had previously captained the cross country team; my classmate could hit for me and I’d be his designated runner.

It made sense to my classmate and me, but the teacher said he really wanted everyone to feel good about being able to hit the ball. So, when my team was at bat, I got in line and waited. All my classmates hit the ball in four or fewer tries, so I thought maybe I’d have a chance. The teacher was pitching well, and very gently for us new players.

But when I got to the plate, I couldn’t hit the ball to save my life. After about ten strikes, I suggested that we go with my plan to be my injured classmate’s designated runner. After twenty, I suggested it again and assured him that my self-confidence in sports and otherwise was fine. I had multiple varsity letters in five different sports; I just wasn’t good at baseball.

Finally, after — and I’m not exaggerating — thirty-two strikes, the teacher saw how bored everyone else was and how non-existent my hitting skills were, so he let my injured classmate up to the plate. My classmate instantly hit the ball deep into the outfield, and I sprinted to second base. With the game finally moving again, I was even able to score! I was a designated runner for the rest of the baseball session.

Even in the moment, I appreciated that he was sincerely trying to help. He didn’t want me to be embarrassed at being the only one to strike out. It just took him a bit to realize that not only was I unbelievably bad at hitting, but I also wasn’t embarrassed by it. More than anything, I was amused by the whole situation, and it still makes me laugh years later.

I’m a home health nurse and take care of primarily medically homebound children. At one home, I found myself using tactics I’d usually use to deal with unruly children to deal with fully cognizant adults. 

Our company provides us with some supplies that we use daily in the home, like hand sanitizer, hand soap, paper towels, and gloves. I had worked for a while with a family with several young children and had learned that if I didn’t lock it up or keep it in my pocket, little hands would find and walk off with everything they could reach. Kids are kids, and they loved playing doctor with real medical supplies — and my pens and chapstick!

After that family moved, I was called into the office for a new client assignment. They asked if I would be willing to work, even very temporarily, in a house where they had a small theft problem. The nurse working a different shift from mine had been complaining of all the company supplies going missing, as well as several of her personal items. It wasn’t her purse or wallet but frustrating little things like her pens, notebooks, personal hand lotion, etc.

They had spoken to the family, and everyone denied taking anything. The parents were very apologetic and had replaced several missing items, but the thefts continued. The office figured since I was so well trained by the last family, I’d be able to help the other nurse solve her problem and protect my own things, as well.

On my first day at the new client’s home, I showed up with my locked supply bag. I explained to the family that I’d gotten in the habit of protecting my supplies from very determined, sticky-fingered children and just kept up the habit wherever I went. I figured it sounded nicer than, “I know there’s a supply thief in the house.”

I had been working for about two or three hours when a family member came in, looked around the room, and asked where the paper towels were.

Me: *Politely* “I assume you keep your paper towels in your kitchen.”

They paused.

Family Member #1: “No, your paper towels. I just need one.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but my company-issued supplies are for the client only due to our infection control policies.”

They tried again, arguing about only needing one, and then gave up when I kept repeating my answer.

Later in the day, another family member asked to borrow my pen “for just a minute”.

Me: “I’m sorry, but I don’t loan out my personal items due to infection control policy.”

Family Member #2: “I only need it for a minute.”

Me: “I’m not endangering myself, my family, or my patient for so much as one second.”

That stopped them in their tracks.

I started keeping little notes in my pocket notebook. By the end of the day, I had been asked for “just one paper towel” about six times, to “borrow” something of mine “for just a minute” about a dozen times, where the hand sanitizer or my personal hand lotion was four or five times, and on and on. It was easy to see that the family had denied taking anything because they didn’t see taking “just one” or “borrowing for a minute” and then never returning something as taking what didn’t belong to them. 

I told the other nurse and the office about the mystery of the missing supplies. Our supervisor spoke with the family again. I had the pleasure of watching her resort to using props and counting things out like she was speaking to a kindergarten class to try to explain to several grown adults that if everyone takes “just one”, that’s how you end up with none, and that “borrowing” without permission and forgetting to return something is how the nurse “lost” several personal items.

They promised to stop taking and borrowing things meant for the client and belonging to the nurse — a promise that didn’t last a day.

So, the last time I worked there, both the other nurse and I took locked bags and kept everything else in our pockets.

I still laugh sometimes thinking of the confused looks on their faces when told that taking one thing is still taking things that don’t belong to you. It made me miss the sticky-fingered kids who just wanted to play Doc McStuffins with my stuff.

A customer is looking confused in our medicine aisle. We are by no means a pharmacy, and I don’t know much about off-the-shelf medicines, but I figure I can help if they’re confused with our products.

Me: “Can I help you, sir?”

This man replies in broken English.

Customer: “I told I need stronger blood. I look for medicine to make strong my homo goblins.”

Me: “Pardon me, your what?”

Customer: “Homo goblins.”

Mercifully, a coworker is passing by.

Coworker: “Iron supplements, to increase haemoglobin production. I’ll show you where they are, sir.”

God bless that coworker…