When Clothes Don't Make the Drug Rep

It was a tough day. We were crazy busy; the phone never stopped ringing. Finally, late in the afternoon, it slowed down. There was only one patient left as we sat cleaning up messages and filing charts, trying to unwind from the day.

We looked out the window and saw a car pull up.

"Is that our last patient?" I asked.

"No," said my office manager, watching as two guys with suits got out of the car. "The last patient is a sixteen-year-old for a physical. That's got to be a drug rep, complete with his District Manager."

"Damn," I said. "I really don't feel like dealing with them right now. Can't you get rid of them?"

Too late; the door was opening.

I got ready to bare my fangs and give them my best DinoRoar(tm).

Oops; it was the 16-year-old I've taken care of since he was born, and his father, all dressed up in suits and ties. The kid's hair was even combed.

I swallowed the roar and said hello, then started laughing and asked them where their laptops and sample cases were as I explained our mistaken assumptions. As it happens, I'd never seen them all gussied up before, so I got to tease them about their cleaning up so nice. But our faces sure were red the rest of the day.

(Sadly, they had indeed come from a funeral. The 51-year-old mother of a friend of the kid had lost her cancer battle.)