My Job, My Hell...

Share a survival experience with us and explain what you learned from it. You might help someone.

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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by Laager » Sat Jul 23, 2016 3:30 pm

I know a few people that are on that program, three are disabled vets so they get their medical retirement plus that and then there was a guy who recently moved out of the area that collected disability checks but then worked for cash on the side. Unfortunately it seems like most fed.gov/state.gov programs there is a huge amount of fraud, waste and abuse.

From what I understand and have been told it seems that I could qualify for the program, but I currently don't want to do it. I might reconsider after the upcoming election. I retired early from the fedgov, because of my injuries (I don't get a retirement check from them for a few more years), but I do have my Army retirement check as well as some other income. As well as Lil's retirement check and her working paycheck.

The three vets that I know use the SSI disability check for ammo purchases........I could always use more ammo or other odds and ends.

I hope it works out for you, I had heard that they typically deny the first claim but eventually give in. But you know how that is, people talking about stuff they "heard" and all that.
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by Mad Mike » Sat Jul 23, 2016 5:20 pm

I resisted signing up for years - I figured there were guys who needed it a lot worse than me. But then came the day I was unable to work, and had serious health issues, so I went in. I just couldn't afford the hundreds of dollars per month of medications, and I wasn't ready to croak just yet. The decision was made for me. :(

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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by TheLastRifleMan » Sat Jul 23, 2016 11:02 pm

Mad Mike wrote:I resisted signing up for years - I figured there were guys who needed it a lot worse than me. But then came the day I was unable to work, and had serious health issues, so I went in. I just couldn't afford the hundreds of dollars per month of medications, and I wasn't ready to croak just yet. The decision was made for me. :(

Exactly my situation. I was one of those guys who were proud to have a job and looked down on those on the government dole. I was fired but was looking for a job. Sure, I took the unemployment to keep me going so I wouldn't get behind bills, etc.

Times were tight and jobs were scarce. Plus my mom was sick (how sick we really didn't know at the time) so I was able to help out around the house and be around her.

Then I had the stroke. No pain, just feeling like I was drunk or not awake. Took me two days to be able to talk, three to read and about two week to be able to write. My once highly respected memory, the most precious attribute I had, was damaged forever. I still feel like I have had two or three shots of whiskey all the time.

When the doctor told me the news, I was devastated. It took me about an hour to get myself to be able to tell my parents anything more then "I had stoke". My Dad, who raised me to work hard and make my own way said "Call Mr. A___(an attorney we know through my aunt) and tell him you need to get disability".

"Dis-Ahh-Beel-Tee? No! I will...find...job..." I tried to get out.
"Fuck that! You paid into it every paycheck you ever got. That's what it's there for. Look at you! You're 48 years old and talk like a toddler. You're a mess right now and you ain't getting better soon, maybe years, probably never is what the doctor says. No one will hire you like that. Give me your phone." he told me.

He called my aunt, who called that lawyer. My mom yelled at him for saying "fuck", which, had it been another situation, I would have found it funny.

I still feel guilty about going on disability, but my dad was right. I paid into that system for 28 years.
It sucks but what else can I do? I can't drive more then a few miles without forgetting where I am. I can't remember my sister's name when I call her. I call her my niece's name instead. I had to come up with a system to remember to take my meds, but still forget to do so.

Anyway, how did my tale seem so far? Good? Bad? Delete it?
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by Mad Mike » Sun Jul 24, 2016 1:59 am

TheLastRifleMan wrote:
Mad Mike wrote:I resisted signing up for years - I figured there were guys who needed it a lot worse than me. But then came the day I was unable to work, and had serious health issues, so I went in. I just couldn't afford the hundreds of dollars per month of medications, and I wasn't ready to croak just yet. The decision was made for me. :(

Exactly my situation. I was one of those guys who were proud to have a job and looked down on those on the government dole. I was fired but was looking for a job. Sure, I took the unemployment to keep me going so I wouldn't get behind bills, etc.

Times were tight and jobs were scarce. Plus my mom was sick (how sick we really didn't know at the time) so I was able to help out around the house and be around her.

Then I had the stroke. No pain, just feeling like I was drunk or not awake. Took me two days to be able to talk, three to read and about two week to be able to write. My once highly respected memory, the most precious attribute I had, was damaged forever. I still feel like I have had two or three shots of whiskey all the time.

When the doctor told me the news, I was devastated. It took me about an hour to get myself to be able to tell my parents anything more then "I had stoke". My Dad, who raised me to work hard and make my own way said "Call Mr. A___(an attorney we know through my aunt) and tell him you need to get disability".

"Dis-Ahh-Beel-Tee? No! I will...find...job..." I tried to get out.
"Fuck that! You paid into it every paycheck you ever got. That's what it's there for. Look at you! You're 48 years old and talk like a toddler. You're a mess right now and you ain't getting better soon, maybe years, probably never is what the doctor says. No one will hire you like that. Give me your phone." he told me.

He called my aunt, who called that lawyer. My mom yelled at him for saying "fuck", which, had it been another situation, I would have found it funny.

I still feel guilty about going on disability, but my dad was right. I paid into that system for 28 years.
It sucks but what else can I do? I can't drive more then a few miles without forgetting where I am. I can't remember my sister's name when I call her. I call her my niece's name instead. I had to come up with a system to remember to take my meds, but still forget to do so.

Anyway, how did my tale seem so far? Good? Bad? Delete it?


Sadly familiar. My BIL is about a year & a half into recovering from a stroke. He still can't talk, and has very little use of his entire right side. :(

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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by sheddi » Sun Jul 24, 2016 3:29 am

TheLastRifleMan wrote:
Mad Mike wrote:I resisted signing up for years - I figured there were guys who needed it a lot worse than me. But then came the day I was unable to work, and had serious health issues, so I went in. I just couldn't afford the hundreds of dollars per month of medications, and I wasn't ready to croak just yet. The decision was made for me. :(
"Fuck that! You paid into it every paycheck you ever got. That's what it's there for. Look at you! You're 48 years old and talk like a toddler. You're a mess right now and you ain't getting better soon, maybe years, probably never is what the doctor says. No one will hire you like that. Give me your phone." he told me.

He called my aunt, who called that lawyer. My mom yelled at him for saying "fuck", which, had it been another situation, I would have found it funny.

I still feel guilty about going on disability, but my dad was right. I paid into that system for 28 years.
Don't feel guilty. That's what it's for. If you were in a crash and your car was wrecked you'd claim on your insurance, and it's much the same as that.
Anyway, how did my tale seem so far? Good? Bad? Delete it?
So far it's good. More please :)
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by TheLastRifleMan » Mon Jul 25, 2016 5:01 pm

Anyway, the "House of the Never Rising Sun, part Zwei.


Still wondering why my Boss asked me if I had my gun (a trusty Model 65 S&W .357 Magnum revolver) with me, I grabbed my Box O' Tricks (tools), loaded up the wheel chair in the van in record time. After filling out the pre drive check list form (yes, I had to fill one of those every day, no exceptions) I made sure that Mr. Crow (the 48" Stanley crow bar was tucked next to the seat) and Mjollnir, the 3lb. dead blow hammer was resting in the recess of the left back van door, were in place. Off I go into a snow covered abyss. I had written a will about a year previously (after the incident with "The Car") but yet to have a lawyer make it legal. After having my boss put the seed of fear in my already neurotic head, I was hoping it would hold up in court and then wondering how many years a person was declared "legally dead" in the state of Michigan w/o a corpus delecti.

The first two stops were easy. Too easy. Clean houses, street cleared of snow, customers happy to see me and even complimenting on my being punctual. Things never, ever go they way I plan them in my line of work and two calls of complete ease was not in my spread of Tarot cards for the day. I could feel the dread coming, building up and became sheer boot quaking terror when I finally figured out where I was going.

After the first burned out house and the "gangsta" graffiti on one those once stately two story showplace homes (R.I.P. Poo Bug, Ja-loc ^ La King Don= $ painted in guady yellow and purple letter three feet tall, in an artistic script with other number and letters combos that were understood only by the initiated) that sat on the corner, I was now in a land that as soon as the sun dropped over into the west, all bets were off for some one of my social class and standing. Think of The Purge but only on weekends and full moons.

That's it, I told myself. I am going to see what safe queens could go in for trade in order to for me to pick up a better carry gun. No cheap Lorcin or Raven .25, hell no. A used Model 36 S&W like I once had, or a Beretta Tomcat .32. Screw the rules, I was telling myself. A crowbar is no defense against a handgun, even the cheap 9mm Hi Points that were flooding the area recently. And pepper spray? In a house? I could see nothing but negatives on that piece of gear. Being shanked because you could see or breath did not leave one much of a fighting chance if the damn sprayer didn't hit the right target. And the fact the stuff fills up a room pretty damn quick, wiping out any possible exit routes...written off the list right then and there.

I found the house, or should I say, what was once a house. The only thing that kept it standing was the fact it was brick facade, top to bottom, with a decent set of shingles covering the roof. Being built on a corner, the houses like this in the city limits were kind of a "2.5 story" house. The walls of the basement, made of large, grapefruit sized stones set in concrete, had taller then normal windows. Since the basement was shallow, the floor of the first story was about six feet from the ground. The front stair case was tall and had two landings, making a climb with a box of tools that weighed 47 lbs. a shaky endeavor, thanks to unshoveled porches. Several bricks has fallen away, never to be replaced, the front cement porch crumbling, all the signs of typical neglect or general apathy.

And the bullet holes. Did I mention them? On the side of the house closet to the intersection the the two streets? Well, If I hadn't, let me elaborate:

I counted eight, circular chipped-out pock marks in the tan colored brickwork, running in a zig zag line between the first and second story, running about the width of the wall. Pistol shots, medium distant, about 15 yards would be my guess. Fired from a car as it swung around the corner to the front of the house, where the shooter had run out of ammo, had a malfunction or had the driver hit the gas and gunned themselves away. Although it was hard to tell, the marks were not that old, making me even more nervous. Remember, children, I had not yet ENTERED the house!

I pulled into the short driveway, finding that it had not been plowed or shoveled. Two faint tire tracks was the only evidence there had been a driveway. I back out into the street and pulled in again, about three times in total. Now at least I had some new tracks that kept me from getting stuck, something I was not very keen of happening! "Always leave yourself an out!" Master Sun Tsu basically in The Art Of War and Master Tsu rarely lost a battle. Making sure the van, Ol' Rattle Trap (because she was the second oldest van in the fleet. The oldest van no longer ran, the delivery guys using it for a "parts only" vehicle) was locked tight, I decided to go light and leave my full box in the van. It was a move that I think probably saved my pale hide.

So, I grabbed the basics: 1/4" socket set and ratchet kit, a screwdriver with reversable Phillips/flat bit that fit most wheel chair screws, flashlight (a 2 cell AAA MiniMag light), multi meter. Everything fit into the overlarge outer pockets of my winter coat, while carrying my clip board with work orders, etc. Up the stairs I climbed and banged on the door with the heavy duty axle bolt from a 500 lbs. capacity wheel chair. Six inches long and 5/8" inch diameter, it usually got someone's attention when it struck a door frame and saved my knuckles, already bruised and scraped from continuous combat with the devices that were the bane of my existence. This particular one was stripped of it's threads, but that is another story. It rode in the right hand pocket of my winter coat even up until my last job as a repair tech. It's in my tool box, somewhere still.

Most houses in this area had cast concrete steps at one time or another, fitted with wrote iron ornaments and safety hand rails. But time makes a fool of us all. As I made my presence known with my "door knocker", the treads of my boots began to slip. I tried to reach for one of those original rails, only to be fooled. Those rails, having been damaged many years ago, simply packed their bags to the nearest scrap yards in order to give themselves up rather then face the dishonor of being attached to such a house. The mailbox, another antique relic that seemed to have survived the ravages of this war zone, was firmly affixed to the brick wall just left of the door I grabbed it and held on just as the door opened.

There was only a single door that faced the elements. No screen door, no iron security door even. All I can say is that when the door opened inward toward the house and away from me, it seemed as though a solar eclipse had suddenly took place. The light, like a black hole in space, sucked any ambient light into for at least a three foot diameter area. I could hear several TV's playing, each on a different channel (which was common) but they were turned down to a "what did he say?" level. But no light. At all. I stood in front of this door and could see nothing not more then five feet in front of me.

I was beginning to wonder if I would ever come out of this man made abyss. My poor mother (may she rest knowing I am still around to tell this tale) would never know what truly had happened to me, he early death due to a broken heart thanks to my MIA status. Suddenly, a woman appeared! She was wearing a black shirt with cold filigree strips and black stretch pants. The reflected light from the snow illuminated her enough for me to see her.
"Yes?" she said pleasently enough.
"Hi, I'm here to look at Jimmy's wheel chair?" I asked.
"Jimmy don't use that chair. It broke." she said, looking at me like I was a complete knucklehead.
"That's what I'm here for. To fix it."
"Ain't the chair. His bed be broke now. He don't go out the house no more."
"I can look at that, too, if he needs it."
"Ok. That be good." she said with a sudden smile. She disappeared into the darkness, and like an idiot I followed.

Dark was an understatement. Kind Tut's tomb, until Howard Carter cracked it open, must have been more brightly lit then this place. I once had a photographic dark room in my basement that was a tanning booth in comparison. Every window was covered in thick, dark British Rifleman green velvet curtains, pulled tight to keep out any light from coming in. Black velour velvet furniture. Dark black wallpaper with antique bronzed colored paisely stripes covered every wall. I didn't have the courag to look down yet, knowing that surface was dark colored or so dirty to glimpse was to loose my grip on what sanity I had left. If there were deadly vipers crawly about, I would not have seen them. Not a lamp was to be found. I could only see what small group of things I had described earlier because the light from the outside world was being sucked in like some demon's spell. I had only taken two steps in when even that poor glimmer of winter's day was suddenly gone.

The woman who had let me in had closed the front door.

True, my eyes were adjusted to the bright, snow covered mid day glare, but I had never seen a place decorated to be so dark on purpose. Luckily, my hearing, amplified by my cursed hearing aids (I had hearing loss from a car wreck many years previously), was picking up the sounds of moving within. To the left of me was someone close to the ground, making a light "thump" sound, one I knew well having heard it at least twice a day, thanks to my previously mentioned warehouse manager.

That meant that someone to my left was sitting down and smacking a new pack of cigarettes into their palm before opening it, packing the tobacco filling tighter. At least I knew now there was a second person in the room, sitting down, with both hands occupied for the moment.

In front of me, just to the right, was a staircase, so stained with grime and soot it looked like at was made of onyx. A set of footsteps has just reach the top of the stairs, the creak of old wood detected by my electronic ears. Three people, at least, in this house. Two here, one up top. So far, so good and this was the first time in my life that I was thankful for having my wonderful, life saving modified hearing.

My eyes had begun to adjust to the darkness and I could sense movement within this dark cavern. It was the woman, who had passed by me without creating a sound my bionic hearing could detect. She waved me over to the left and I followed and as I did, my sense of smell detected something. Or should I say, some things.

Alright, alright, you think you know what I was smelling? Have I really told too many of the fecal focused kind that you are thinking "oh yes, I've got him figure out by now!"? Really, dear reader, I am most disappointed! I will, it seems, have to explain.

It was a pungent odor, true, but of the man made chemical kind. A mixture of ammonia and something akin to black and white photographic print developer (which is acedic acid, actually). Mix in some spray brake cleaner (a substance I was to become intimately attached to by my Dad when i was seven years old) and it was pretty much the scent that was now causing my eyes to burn slightly.

Then it hit me: Drawn curtains. Bullet holes. A house interior so dark that no one can see into it. The scent of chemical solvents. If you haven't guessed it already, let me bring you in:

I was in a crack house!

I couldn't turn and run. First of all, the very notion of being in a "microbrewery" of illegal drugs was pretty scary. I grew up straight laced, kept my nose out of trouble and now I was in a place that not only sold a very bad product but were manufacturing it as well. The "crack epidemic" as it was being called had so many articles, pamphlets and talk show topics on it that everyone knew the chemicals involved. At the time, that is how many of the manufacturing houses in my area were caught-neighbors calling the police about nasty smells coming from next door, etc.

Secondly, I would probably be dead before I made it to the van less then 30 yards away. I don't care if you are faster then Usain Bolt, humans cannot outrace bullets. Besides, I was still not sure were the door was. I had not seen a gun yet, been threatened or had even made what they had considered a false move by yours truly. All I could do was follow the woman and keep my head on a swivel.

Which is what I did, until it was time for me to hide. I will explain later in Part three of "The House of the Never Rising Sun".
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by shrapnel » Tue Aug 02, 2016 7:27 am

5 am

Walking down the hall to a room, two different nurses let me know the patient is nonverbal but needs his labs drawn.

I walk into the room, notice the terrifying level of crazyeye he's rocking, and begin to be concerned that I'm going to get (silently) punched.

"Hi, sir, my name's shrapnel, I'm from the lab, I'm here to get your blood today"

No response, out loud or otherwise. That's cool, he's nonverbal, my goal is 'don't get punched.'

I start doing my thing, telling him what I'm doing, and keeping a close eye on his arms.

"Ok sir, here we go"

*Needle touches skin*

The patient sits straight up in bed and bellows in my face "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING TO ME!?"

I scream. He screams. Three nurses come running yelling things like "Was that Patient? Did he talk? What did you do?". In the distance, dogs howl and church bells ring. I flee as quickly as possible.

The moral of this story? I obviously have missed my true calling as an acupuncturist.
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shrapnel wrote:Darling, I would never fondle your sphenoid.
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by TheLastRifleMan » Tue Aug 02, 2016 10:57 am

Shrapnel's Blessed Needle of Healing! Detects pathogens in the blood and brings speech to those who couldn't before! :clap:
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by Barnabus » Wed Aug 03, 2016 6:24 pm

TheLastRifleMan wrote:Anyway, the "House of the Never Rising Sun, part Zwei.

........
Which is what I did, until it was time for me to hide. I will explain later in Part three of "The House of the Never Rising Sun".
Well? Well???? :ohdear:
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by shrapnel » Wed Aug 03, 2016 11:08 pm

Patient: Get the fuck away from me! Nurse, help, Hitler is here!

So maybe I should stop goose-stepping into rooms and shouting at patients in German.


The patient thinks her nurse is Al Capone, though, so at least I have interesting company.
OTTB wrote:"What's that you're wearing?"
"This? Oh, just my rabies hat."
shrapnel wrote:Darling, I would never fondle your sphenoid.
Dr. Cox wrote: People aren't chocolates. Do you know what they are mostly? Bastards. Bastard-coated bastards with bastard fillings.
JamesCannon wrote:Shrapnel, if you were a superhero, you'd be Captain Buzzkill Peener Pain.

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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by mzmc » Thu Aug 04, 2016 7:28 am

Walking with your knees locked puts an undue amount of stress on your hips anyway. :clownshoes:
May contain traces of derp.

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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by TheLastRifleMan » Thu Aug 04, 2016 10:42 am

Barnabus wrote:
TheLastRifleMan wrote:Anyway, the "House of the Never Rising Sun, part Zwei.

........
Which is what I did, until it was time for me to hide. I will explain later in Part three of "The House of the Never Rising Sun".
Well? Well???? :ohdear:
Soon, dear readers, soon. Promise!

Any good so far?
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by shrapnel » Sun Aug 07, 2016 3:54 am

A patient coughed up a giant gob of mucusspitlunggoop while I was drawing his blood. Most of it wound up on my isolation gown and gloves, but some got on my face.

I immediately threw up into my mask, for obvious reasons.



There is no moral to this story. It's just disgusting.
OTTB wrote:"What's that you're wearing?"
"This? Oh, just my rabies hat."
shrapnel wrote:Darling, I would never fondle your sphenoid.
Dr. Cox wrote: People aren't chocolates. Do you know what they are mostly? Bastards. Bastard-coated bastards with bastard fillings.
JamesCannon wrote:Shrapnel, if you were a superhero, you'd be Captain Buzzkill Peener Pain.

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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by TheLastRifleMan » Sun Aug 07, 2016 10:39 am

shrapnel wrote:A patient coughed up a giant gob of mucusspitlunggoop while I was drawing his blood. Most of it wound up on my isolation gown and gloves, but some got on my face.

I immediately threw up into my mask, for obvious reasons.



There is no moral to this story. It's just disgusting.
That IS nasty! I probably would have had the same reaction.
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by TwistedSense » Sun Aug 07, 2016 11:07 am

shrapnel wrote:A patient coughed up a giant gob of mucusspitlunggoop while I was drawing his blood. Most of it wound up on my isolation gown and gloves, but some got on my face.

I immediately threw up into my mask, for obvious reasons.



There is no moral to this story. It's just disgusting.
Mucus phlegm crap is the one thing I can't handle. Due to the fact that we had a patient bring in a sputum sample one time. Wrapped in a paper towel and that wrapped in a wad of aluminum foil. I had the privilege of dissecting it between two sterile cups for testing. I nearly vomited myself. Can't stand it since then. Out of all the things I've smelled and worked with I hate sputum the most.

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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by emclean » Mon Aug 08, 2016 1:09 pm

shrapnel wrote:A patient coughed up a giant gob of mucusspitlunggoop while I was drawing his blood. Most of it wound up on my isolation gown and gloves, but some got on my face.

I immediately threw up into my mask, for obvious reasons.



There is no moral to this story. It's just disgusting.
one more reason to be glad I have a PAPR for isolation.

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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by TheLastRifleMan » Mon Aug 08, 2016 10:15 pm

Okay, so where did I leave off?

Oh yeah, I was hiding in the "House of the Never Rising Sun".

Well, not hiding yet. Let me elaborate:

I had just discerned I was in a house that was manufacturing "crack" cocaine. It would explain the bullet holes in the house's exterior. The house was also made so dark that NVG's would have been needed to find my way out. I think this was not an esthetic choice, but one to make sure the local authorities, who frown on such things as narcotic procesesing, were unable to see what was inside.

I could still hear movement upstairs as the woman pointed me out to the bed that needed me to repair. It is against the wall to the left, between the living room and what I think may be the kitchen or dining area. Unfortunately, the customer, a very weak looking man who looked like his last meal had been before the holidays, was still in it. This was a huge no-no in the company rule book since if the customer was hurt while I was doing repairs, well, their are a lot of those lawyers that advertise on TV that have huge mortgage payments for their winter homes in Palm Beach.

Says I, "I can't work on it with him in the bed."
"I ain't gonna move him. He heavy." the woman tells me. Heavy? The only thing heavy in this house is the scent of the fumes of solvents, which are beginning to burn my eyes. Note to myself, I think, buy a gas mask and write it off on my taxes. You know. For biological reasons.
"Oh, Lord, I is hurtin'. Fix my bed so's I cans sleep!" the "customer" begs. It's a pitiful sight and I need to get out of this place before one of the house ninja's that I have yet to detect puts a .22 in the back of my skull.
"Al right. Let me see what I can do." I tell the woman, who nods and takes to steps into the veil of black.

I turn on my AAA Mini Maglite just so I can see if I there is anything hiding under the bed. Like a couple boxes of adult diapers, shoes (I have removed more shoes tied up in the motors of home hospital beds then mechanics have changed break pads) or a couple tightly wrapped bundles weighing approx. 2.2 lbs. Luckily, there is nothing there and I slide underneath. Everything seems to be in order as far as the motors and connections as I feel around and hold the light in my mouth. As I do this, I hear a loud knock from what I think is the front door. Three loud, deliberate BOOMs that shake the windows.
"Juwan, answer it! Go outside! The man here fixin' da bed!" the woman yells.
"Huh?" someone in the living room answers.
"Git da dower!"
"They can't come in!"
"I knows dat! Tell dem go round back!" the woman yells, frantic as three more loud bangs strike the house.

I still can't see what is going on. The little Maglite, the best light for the buck available at the time, might as well be a match. The beam travels only about 18" into the gloom. Whoever is outside must know I'm here somewhere, the company van parked prominently in the driveway as I previously mentioned. Still, with no idea where a door might be and with no other means of cover, I shut off the light and pull myself tight to the wall, and turning up the collar of my navy blue coat to try to cover my poor, pale white face and thanking the many heavens above my pants are also the same color. In the gloom of the house, I am finding that particular color is fast becoming my favorite. It still is for nighttime work, but that is another story.

"Juwan" opens the door just enough to see who is outside, shining a laser like blast of light through the house. Words are whispered and the door closes. Footsteps walk past me and I listen as another door opens and closes once again, this time at my feet. I realize I am becoming hypoxic, since I have held my breath for at least three minutes. In school, my record was three, but that was when I played woodwind instruments in school. Taking a deep breath, I start to pull myself out from underneath the bed, having found the problem just before the "visitors" arrived.

Seems that the socket the power cord the bed was plugged into was wired into a light switch in the kitchen. Turn on the light, the bed worked. Turn it off (which was probably done years ago when the customer's new "freinds" moved in) and the bed quits working. A simple test thanks to my trusty multimeter and a bit of knowledge. The paperwork is signed, I leave a copy and I am quickly guided to the front door, which is slammed behind me without as much as a "thank you".

It takes me a minute to get my eyes accustomed to the light, even with the overcast skies. When I am able to see, I am able to see footprints over my own in the snow. Two pair of Air Jordan's and one pair of New Balance shoes. High end footwear. Having to buy shoes to fit my odd shaped feet is always a chore and having seen the ridiculous prices for those shoes in the store made my once take a look at what made them so expensive.

And they are popular among the "homies" in this area. And that is the level of knowledge I have about high dollar shoes from that time.

I make a dash to the van and back it out, happy I had made those ruts in the snow when I pulled in. I make it back to the shop without incident, dropping off my tool box and heading upstairs to drop off the day's paperwork to the Slacker.

"Whoa! You dump nail polish remover on you? It's burning my eyes!" he says to me.

I bet it does, Mr. Slacker, it surely does. Next time you send me there, we're both going. I'll even drive. And I hope you will enjoy the ambience of the place as much as I did.

Couple months later, the Slacker tells me that now Jimmy's power chair "don't work". I talk to my boss, who makes the call himself, telling them if the want it fixed right, bring it in.

They never did.
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We shall not sleep..."

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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by shrapnel » Tue Aug 09, 2016 1:52 am

emclean wrote:
shrapnel wrote:A patient coughed up a giant gob of mucusspitlunggoop while I was drawing his blood. Most of it wound up on my isolation gown and gloves, but some got on my face.

I immediately threw up into my mask, for obvious reasons.



There is no moral to this story. It's just disgusting.
one more reason to be glad I have a PAPR for isolation.
He had C. diff and VRE, nothing airborne or droplet. I just put on a mask because I heard him coughing and I hate it when they cough in my face. :cry:
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"This? Oh, just my rabies hat."
shrapnel wrote:Darling, I would never fondle your sphenoid.
Dr. Cox wrote: People aren't chocolates. Do you know what they are mostly? Bastards. Bastard-coated bastards with bastard fillings.
JamesCannon wrote:Shrapnel, if you were a superhero, you'd be Captain Buzzkill Peener Pain.

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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by TheLastRifleMan » Tue Aug 09, 2016 10:36 am

That is still nasty!
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by Laager » Wed Aug 10, 2016 8:02 pm

Some years back I had a mandatory appointment with the local VA hospital. So off I went, it worked out that I was also heading that way to pick up a new prosthetic (I get a new one every once in awhile and a new pair of shoes), so it was basically a paid trip (paid by VA) and I was able to pick up my new prosthetic and then make my appointment with my Primary Care Manager (PCM). Lil wanted to go and then Bec decided to go as well.

Well the first stop was to pick up my new foot and footwear, then out to the Post for lunch and some shopping, then up to the VA hospital and then drive on home.

I tried out my new foot and shoes in the office, I took them off when I got in the truck (can't shift gears with the prosthetic, well I can but every so often the darn thing gets stuck up under the dash between the clutch and the dash.

Trust me it is a bit disconcerting to not be able to get you leg unstuck while driving down the road.

So we hit the Post and grab lunch at the Texas Road House (they do have a fantastic PX on Fort Bliss), I grab some ammo (for some strange reason they almost always have .38 Super, .22LR and a nice selection of .338 Lapua).

Lil and Bec hit the shoe sales and stock up on shoes.

I finally get them out of the PX and off we go up to the VA hospital. Lil tells me that I need to strap on my new foot and put some miles on it, like the Doc said. So I put the darn thing on, slip my foot into my new shoe and off we go to my appointment. Since I only go there when they make me, I have to ask them which way do I go to get to my appointment.

Of course they have now reinstalled metal detectors (since one of the staff shot and killed another staff member there awhile back), so I have to strip off all my knives, my TKM Hex tool and leave my flashlight behind. However I did bring in an old "D" ring.....in a pinch they make a decent brass knuckle.

Just like the TSA they let me bring it in........of course they will confiscate you nail clippers but they let you in with brass knuckles.

The old vets at the customer service desk were friendly and pointed us in the right direction, and I did manage to grab a bag of popcorn and head to the elevator to head down to the first floor, then follow the signs.

Hmmmm, now why is my PCM Doc's office located in the old mental health ward. I point this out to Lil who ignores me, and then Bec who also ignores me. Although I do get a you are pulling stuff out of your rear end look from Bec.

We make it to the first floor, follow the signs and enter the old and current mental health clinic. The only difference is the rooms upstairs are no longer used to house patients, but now apparently house staff. On a side note it appears that the Army is building a huge new hospital over on Biggs Field, but I do not know if the VA will remain in the old hospital or move to the new location, and do not really care.

Lil and Bec decide to go down the to canteen to get some coffee and sit outside to wait for me. Leaving me to head down the hallway full of damaged souls. Well things went well other than being stopped by a male patient who wanted to discuss God and repentance. No real issue but I did manage to make it to the counter, and noticed that while I was talking to the staff managing the desk that there was a woman looking at me.

Well not really at me, but more like at my new shoes. I smile and nod my head and get the go ahead to head to the elevator that only leads to the old mental health ward.

Did the appointment, no real issues other than to make sure I was still alive and would I like to make use of their services. Thanks but no thanks, I am good to go at this station and would like to leave. Appointment over and away I go.

Now I am on my way out and some of the mental health staff are talking to the woman that was checking out my shoes, or possibly my rear end. She was not that bad looking and well at my age you got to take it where you get it. Everyone likes a little bit of attention from someone younger than they are.

I did notice that she was checking out the shoes on the orderlies or staff and I guess something about their shoes set her off.

Right when I was passing by.....so being the attractive man candy that I am....she grabs me and starts yelling that the orderlies are really demons and are trying to suck out her soul and that I was the only normal person around (like her). First thought was lady you certainly have that wrong....normal is definitely not me......Abbynormal is more like it....

Eventually the orderlies and what I think was a doctor of some sort managed to get the women off me and dragged her away. My guess is that needle that they shoved into her rear end was filled with Thorazine (at least that is what my brother Gabby told me they use in his clinic).

One of the staff was helping me up and told me that the patient thinks that everyone with worn shoes (at the heel) are demons sent from one of realms of Hades . and since I was wearing new shoes I was not a Demon from Hades.

So after dusting me off, I hobble my way down to the canteen to find Lil and Bec, who look at me for a bit. Then Lil looks at Bec and says only he can go to a doctor's appointment and come out with scratches, a torn T-shirt and a black eye. Evidently I can not take him anywhere. Bec agree and said I was not house broken or civilized. I just wondered if they had some fresh popcorn upstairs that I could snag on the way out.

As we made our way back to the elevator, past the mental health ward I had to fend off the guy that wanted me to repent and be saved, I foisted him off on Lil and Bec and jumped into the elevator, following the sweet smell of fresh popcorn.

I did manage to grab another bag of fresh popcorn and eat it while I waited for Lil and Bec to finish repenting and finding God.

The only people that asked me what the heck happened were the volunteers manning the customer service desk and making that awesome popcorn. The security guys and gals just ignored me.

I wish the lady downstairs had ignored me..........of course I had to listen to Lil and Bec on the way home.

Somehow I feel that this was all Lil's fault.....her and those new shoes......of course they don't see it that way.
Last edited by Laager on Sat Aug 20, 2016 1:17 pm, edited 2 times in total.
“Complacency kills. Paranoia is the reason I’m still alive.” If we do happen to make contact, I expect nothing less than gratuitous violence from the lot of ya.

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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by andrewza » Thu Aug 11, 2016 5:20 am

The only thing i get from this thread is a felling of thanks for haveing a job not nearly as bad as your all.
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by Mad Mike » Thu Aug 11, 2016 6:04 am

andrewza wrote:The only thing i get from this thread is a felling of thanks for haveing a job not nearly as bad as your all.


Be grateful for small favors! :clap:

PS: is that the boat you serve on?

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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by andrewza » Thu Aug 11, 2016 6:45 am

Mad Mike wrote:
andrewza wrote:The only thing i get from this thread is a felling of thanks for haveing a job not nearly as bad as your all.


Be grateful for small favors! :clap:

PS: is that the boat you serve on?

Yep. I am actually in front when that took place.


That trip could actually go inbthis thread since the trip up was fine and leaving was fine expect 10 min in our trip back home our sister ship sufferd multiple problems and failures. Since we where leaving a knysna a very dangouris harbour to enter that a vessel our size can only enter at certain times and have a very narrow channel we had to push on. We did 3Knts for all most 3 days. Ever gon 3Knts most birting trip ever. Go on watch go of watch 8 hours later go on watch and see the same land marks.



At least the local NSRI took a great pic of us leaving the harbour.
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Re: My Job, My Hell...

Post by Laager » Sun Aug 21, 2016 12:48 am

andrewza wrote:The only thing i get from this thread is a felling of thanks for haveing a job not nearly as bad as your all.

You and me both........although I doubt that I could do some of the jobs that have been discussed here. I barely did my 20+ with Civil Service as it was....then I bailed at the first chance I got.
“Complacency kills. Paranoia is the reason I’m still alive.” If we do happen to make contact, I expect nothing less than gratuitous violence from the lot of ya.

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