P. w. P.s

Had my share of dealing with "P.w.P." today (Persons with Problems, which is sort of similar to what one blogger...I think it was Suzette? referred to as Problem People. But I do try to be forgiving, and am willing to accept that these people may be lovely people in their own right and when things are going well. But when they have Problems, all heck breaks loose, and they make the world difficult for all around them).

First: weekly trip to Student Health Services. I think it will be an interesting but sad experiment, if we do in fact get Canadian/U.K./socialist-style health care here, when people with the Giant Entitlement Mentality run up against a bureaucracy that vaguely patterns itself on the old Soviet system. Which will crack first?

Anyway. I say this because Student Health Services is kinda sorta a little outpost of somewhat socialist-style medicine: because it's covered by those mysterious 'student fees,' it's seen as "free" and people tend to abuse it a little bit.

(Long-term readers may remember an interesting but sad situation observed a couple years ago).

Well, today, there was a young woman in there with a dog bite. I know this, despite the fact that HIPAA law says I shouldn't, because her mother showed up while the young woman was in for her appointment, and proceeded to loudly tell the student worker what happened to her daughter and what the doctor and nurse "needed" to do for her. Oh, and that someone "needed" to go out and catch the dog, and she seemed to be nominating the nurse for that job.

She then proceeded to tell the student worker that she was going in to the exam room to "sit with" her daughter. The student worker - good for her - informed the mom that "Your daughter is over 18 so we can't allow you in the exam room unless she gives her OK."

Of course, you can imagine that set the mom off. (Oh, and she had the young woman's much younger sister with her as well. So Moms is carrying around a squalling toddler in the tiny tiny waiting area, where there are already several of us).

THEN she pulls out her cell phone. And CALLS HER DAUGHTER in the exam room to tell her that she is there and she wants in.

Well, Daughter comes out to tell mom that they had given her "a shot" and were going to do more. The mom counseled her to ask for extra wound dressings and all that, and reminded her to tell them that "someone needs to go catch that dog." (Which I think is technically Animal Control's job, and not the campus health service, but whatever).

So Daughter goes back in.

(Oh, and in the middle of all this? Still waiting on my allergy shot. At one point, while the Mom is in mid-rant, the receptionist comes in and quietly asks me, "Have you been taken care of?" I just shake my head no - not wanting to add to the decibel load in the room that already exists - and the receptionist kind of rolled her eyes at the ranting mom and grizzling 3-year-old.)

Daughter comes out.

"Did they clean the wound? Did they clean out where that dog bit you? If they didn't, you need to go back in there and sit down and tell them you're not leaving until they clean it. And get extra bandages! And ask them for antibiotic cream to take home!"

Finally, they got them all fixed up - Daughter showed the wound to her mom, it was small (though I do agree that someone - most likely Animal Control - probably does need to catch and quarantine the dog if it was a stray. But it's not the nurse's job!) The mom said a few more things and they finally left.

Then I got my shot. It took about 25 minutes extra than it normally does.

Next stop, the post office - home, in my experience, of Persons with Problems. At least the Amazon reseller dude wasn't there today - there's a little old man who apparently has a booming used-book business via Amazon, and it seems at least half the times I go to the post office, he's there in line ahead of me, with his eighty-five little puffy envelopes, all of which need to be weighed, all of which need to be stamped and metered, and usually this is at a time when one window is open.

(Teeny tiny post office gripe: Could they not have a special, separate window for home-based business people who need to send out a buttload of packages? And bleed those folks off from the rest of us who really just want to pick up a package, or need to buy an unusual stamp denomination, or need to send a registered letter or something? Could they perhaps hire another person or two to work the windows?)

Anyway. Mr. Amazon wasn't there, but there was a dude ahead of me who was sending some bedspreads back to his native country. (I know they were bedspreads because they were just in clear plastic bags. And I know he was sending them to another country because he was having issues with the customs forms). But here was his big FAIL: he hoists these bedspreads, in their little plastic bags, up on the counter, smiles at the lady behind it, and says, "I have the customs forms filled out now. Can you stamp these for me?"

And I'm standing there going, dude, you are WAY too trusting. I have had letters get shredded that were sent from less than 500 miles away. And here you have an apparently-fairly-expensive item in the equivalent of a Wal-mart sack, and you think it will make it to Singapore or wherever the heck you're sending it OK?

The woman gently told him, "No, I'm sorry. They will need to be in a box to send them." Of course, he wasn't willing to accept that answer right off- but she held her ground and finally he slouched off to look at the Box Display.

Fortunately, the woman took that as an opening to help me quickly (I just needed to pick up a package). I don't know what happened with Mr. Slumpy because he was still staring sullenly at the boxes as I walked out the door.

So that was my day. Two people, who I am SURE are delightful people at other times, but all I saw was their with Problems face.