A large, unconscious man had wedged himself in the corner stall of the woman’s bathroom of a White Castles restaurant. He was barely breathing and a needle was still in his arm. He wasn’t rousable and we wanted to fix his respiratory effort sooner rather than later. The hope also was, that if we get could wake him up with Narcan, he would be in a better position to unwedge himself, or at least assist in the process. Narcan (naloxone) could reverse the effects of the heroin he had just shot himself up with. As the smaller partner, my larger partner had rationalized, it would be better if I was the one to try and maneuver the way in to provide the transformative drug.

In those days there was no aerosolized, nasal naloxone, as there is now, and the only way to administer it was through an IV or with an intramuscular injection. I went in, syringe in hand, to try and access his shoulder. I wrestled with his clothes to clear a path for my needle and did my best to create a sterile field. It was a cramped space and I was trying very hard not to touch anything I didn’t have to. I was ready to hit him with the naloxone when I was suddenly distracted by a commotion behind me. A woman had shoved her way into the bathroom and my partner was arguing with her.

“But I gotta GO!” she yelled angrily.

“You’re gonna have to wait. We’re busy in here.” he answered.

“Well, can’t she move over?” she pointed towards me. My legs were extended into the connecting stall, impeding her intended use.

“Are you kidding me?!” my partner yelled exasperatingly.

“Am I being asked to move?” I asked. “Because I’m not going to. Look, he should be out of here shortly, just give us a few minutes.”

“I don’t HAVE a few minutes! I got to GO!” she yelled. “That man isn’t even supposed to be in here. This is the ladies room. Why is this my problem?”

I went back to lining up my bullseye and my partner continued arguing with the woman. Eventually the manager stepped in and was able to lure the woman a few feet away, but only for a few minutes, with the promise of free onion rings. She stayed nearby however and watched what we were doing, the whole time bouncing around as if her bladder were to imminently explode.

We were able to get our patient awake and breathing. When he started to come around he became the object of the woman’s derision. The onion ring promise only applied to us, my partner and I. If she was going to leave the patient alone more items from the dollar menu would have to be thrown into her take out order.

“Didn’t you see the SIGN?” she yelled at him. “Ladies room? See the girl in the picture, she’s wearing a big wide dress.”

Our patient didn’t know what to say. He’d just been whipped back to reality against his will, a reality he’d tried to escape not so long ago.

“The men’s room is right next door,” she continued. “Was it too far of a walk?”

The man looked at me for assistance. I had none to offer in this situation.

“You junkies, always gotta use the ladies room,” she continued. I had to admit she had a point. I don’t remember giving naloxone to anyone passed out in the men’s room, though I probably did. There were so many fast food restaurants and so much naloxone being administered there, who could remember them all?

“There’s never a line in the men’s room,” she said to me, and again she was right. Whether at the airport, a concert, a rest stop, or a fast food restaurant there is always a line, while the men in our lives just waltz right in to their area and emerge while we’re still waiting. It a source of frustration for me too. I’ve never parlayed this into free food but I was going to see if there was a way sometime.

“Why they gotta use OUR room? They got like 20 urinals and 10 stalls and all we get is like, TWO. Anywhere you go, men get all these toilets and all these urinals and we get TWO. There’s something going on. The people who design these bathrooms hate women.”

We were getting into conspiracy-theory territory here. I encouraged our patient to get up and start moving.

I had to internally give some kudos to this woman. There was a good possibility, based on experience, that our patient would have directed some of his irritation at having his high eliminated on us. Her wrath at being inconvenienced had redirected his attitude around and he was very cooperative with us, even agreeing to go to the ER. Perhaps he was just trying to escape this woman. Hopefully he made a mental note to use the mens room next time he wanted to get high in a burger establishment. It’s unlikely he’d get an argument there.

“You know I’m right!” she continued yelling as we made our way out.

Overdoses in fast food restaurants are a dime a dozen but many other call types find their way into franchise eating establishments. Fried food lends itself to medical emergencies but usually the cause and effect isn’t so immediate.

Not very long after that we were called to a seizure in a different hamburger franchise. He had collapsed in front of the cashier and the fact that he was still seizing when we got there was very concerning. It was a true emergency.

But one hungry couple couldn’t wait for us to pack up and leave and went over to the register to order a meal. The woman behind the register was dumbfounded.

“I ain’t waiting on those long lines while you’re open,” the woman said. The cashier indicated that she wasn’t “open”. “Then what are you doing now? You ain’t EMS.” There was a certain logic to it, but we were EMS and she was most certainly in our way.

“We’re working here, you need to get out of our way,” my partner had a great tone that he used. It was a mixture of condescension and exasperation.

“I don’t think you understand how hungry I am. I got to eat. Now, or else you’ll be taking me when I pass out!” Apparently his tone wasn’t going to be enough in this situation. Maybe because of her persistence we really could understand how hungry she was. But we really didn’t care.

Our patient having the seizure was difficult to manage. With his constant movements picking him up to put on our stretcher was an arduous endeavor. We had quickly started an IV and were attempting to get medicine to stop the seizure. In those days it involved calling a doctor on the phone (these days there are standing orders for giving it).

I suggested she or her boyfriend, who had retreated, could help by holding one end of the stretcher to keep it from moving. “I don’t work for you,” she said. But then she reconsidered. “If I help them will you give me a free onion rings?” she asked the cashier. When the cashier agreed she also asked for two shakes and large fries. Her request was granted. It was almost enough to make you cry in laughter, if you weren’t already exhausted from trying to lift a heavy person having a grand mal seizure. The woman got on one side of the stretcher and held it. She congratulated herself for keeping our stretcher from rolling away and got her prize. “You should hire me!” she said.

Yes, because you’ve been so helpful.

As we rolled our stretcher away I could hear her arguing with the staff again. She said that her entire order should be free, because of the great assistance she had provided. She thought the chain restaurant would reward her with everything she wanted. She had risked her health, for heaven’s sake. They should be bending over backwards to make her feel special. Her picture should be on the wall and she didn’t even work there. For heavens sake, she had just saved the life of a man in their restaurant and they couldn’t give her a free meal?