With computers and newer machinery, everything is at our fingertips. Things are processed so rapidly that people begin to expect that everything they want, they will get in the blink of an eye.
One day at work, a client came down the aisle at a leisurely pace. She handed me her prescription, which had a couple of items listed. I told her that it would take a few minutes to process the prescription, to which she replied that she would wait.
I had barely had the chance to access the client's file before I heard it. Rata-tat-tat-tat-tat. At first I thought that the computer was about to explode, and considered the best place to duck and run for cover. However, the noise did seem to be coming from somewhere beyond the counter with the computer. That's when I noticed the client, who had one hand on her hip and one hand on the counter, where her fingernails were impatiently drumming at the speed of light.
It usually takes a few minutes to enter a prescription in to the computer, send a claim to the insurance, count the pills, then have the finished product checked by the pharmacist. The whole time that it took to get to the last step, the client was impatiently drumming the counter. It was like hearing a time bomb count down to zero before the explosion.
"I must get those medications before the time runs out and I spontaneously combust!"
When I've finished counting the medications and it's time for the pharmacist to check the finished product, the pharmacist happens to be on the phone with a doctor. I explain to the client that it will take a few more minutes.
She gives me the glare of doom and sighs loudly.
In the meantime, I am busy with other clients, while she sighs and taps her fingernails on the counter. I'm wondering if the consistent tapping will just eventually wear her nails down to nubs.
After approximately three more minutes of the infernal tapping, she sighs, then loudly states, "You know that I'm still waiting, right?"
"No, I completely forgot. What are you here for, again?" I could only imagine how purple her face would become if she received that response.
I assure her that I know she's there (after all, I couldn't miss the constant stream of noise). I'm starting to wonder if the counter will have to be repainted by the time she leaves. I'm also thinking that we should charge her extra for damages sustained in the pharmacy over the five minutes that she's been waiting.
The pharmacist is the one who gets the pleasure of explaining how to take the new medication to the impatient client. She does all but snatch the bottle out of his hand and huff and puff on her way out. If it were a cartoon, smoke would be pouring out of her ears.
Perhaps someday they will invent a magic wand that prepares prescription medications with the wave of a hand. In the meantime, people will simply have to wait their turn, patiently or not.
One day at work, a client came down the aisle at a leisurely pace. She handed me her prescription, which had a couple of items listed. I told her that it would take a few minutes to process the prescription, to which she replied that she would wait.
I had barely had the chance to access the client's file before I heard it. Rata-tat-tat-tat-tat. At first I thought that the computer was about to explode, and considered the best place to duck and run for cover. However, the noise did seem to be coming from somewhere beyond the counter with the computer. That's when I noticed the client, who had one hand on her hip and one hand on the counter, where her fingernails were impatiently drumming at the speed of light.
It usually takes a few minutes to enter a prescription in to the computer, send a claim to the insurance, count the pills, then have the finished product checked by the pharmacist. The whole time that it took to get to the last step, the client was impatiently drumming the counter. It was like hearing a time bomb count down to zero before the explosion.
"I must get those medications before the time runs out and I spontaneously combust!"
When I've finished counting the medications and it's time for the pharmacist to check the finished product, the pharmacist happens to be on the phone with a doctor. I explain to the client that it will take a few more minutes.
She gives me the glare of doom and sighs loudly.
In the meantime, I am busy with other clients, while she sighs and taps her fingernails on the counter. I'm wondering if the consistent tapping will just eventually wear her nails down to nubs.
After approximately three more minutes of the infernal tapping, she sighs, then loudly states, "You know that I'm still waiting, right?"
"No, I completely forgot. What are you here for, again?" I could only imagine how purple her face would become if she received that response.
I assure her that I know she's there (after all, I couldn't miss the constant stream of noise). I'm starting to wonder if the counter will have to be repainted by the time she leaves. I'm also thinking that we should charge her extra for damages sustained in the pharmacy over the five minutes that she's been waiting.
The pharmacist is the one who gets the pleasure of explaining how to take the new medication to the impatient client. She does all but snatch the bottle out of his hand and huff and puff on her way out. If it were a cartoon, smoke would be pouring out of her ears.
Perhaps someday they will invent a magic wand that prepares prescription medications with the wave of a hand. In the meantime, people will simply have to wait their turn, patiently or not.
You should have just given her Ex-Lax or something, might dislodge the stick up her ass!
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