Look, I don’t want to be at work either. I come to this place at least twice a week, most frequently on Mondays, and it is always the same thing: a female feeling faint, or with chest pain, or with difficulty breathing.
I understand your boss is a really, really big meany-head, and doesn’t like it when you call out to work because you were hung over the whole weekend, I really do. I get it. I promise.
But every time you call for something like “feeling faint” or “chest pain” or with “difficulty breathing,” we send a fire truck, an rescue truck, and an ambulance to this place.
Ten people, eight EMTs and two paramedics, in 3 vehicles, for one person who just doesn’t want to be at work.
And when you call with one of those complaints, we have to send all those people to this place because it might actually be an ALS call. Then we have to start lines, do 12-leads, give aspirin and nitro, and the hospital has to waste their time doing the same thing.
And I know there isn’t anything wrong with any of you. I’ve been coming here weekly for years. Literally, years. I could drive here in my sleep. It’s like a giant room full of women crying wolf.
So I propose a deal: I will continue being the jovial paramedic who is genuinely concerned for your well-being, and you stop complaining of these things. How about “back pain from a kidney stone” or “nausea” or “pregnancy problem” or something that is BLS, but sick enough for your boss to believe your story.
I will still bring the stretcher to you, because we all know you can’t walk. I’ll still take you to the hospital, and they will still give you a work excuse, and your friend can also get off of work to come pick you up from the hospital, and you can both be back at your house in time to catch Judge Judy.
Stop the charade.