A Game of Telephone

Written by Natalie Mead / Illustration by Marissa Maciel

“Is there anything I can order? French fries?” I sighed into the big-buttoned phone attached to my hospital bed. I was hospitalized for my third round of inpatient treatment for chronic migraine disorder—five days of nausea-inducing infusions, extra-nosey nurses, and hospital food. And this time, I’d made the mistake of mentioning my dietary restrictions during intake: no gluten, no dairy.

Simple, right? Two of the most common dietary restrictions in the whole world, right?

“French fries have soy, and you’re allergic,” replied the dining services operator, whose job was to sit on the phone all day, taking patient food orders. (Like DoorDash, but slower and with worse food.)

“But I’m not!”

“It says here you are.”

“Fine,” I said, “just tell me what to order!” I’d already been on the phone for five minutes while they informed me that, in addition to no gluten or dairy, I also couldn’t have tomatoes, onions, nuts, or, now, soy. Someone had really messed up. And the only way to fix it, they said, was to have a doctor manually change my chart. Because I couldn’t be trusted to know what I could eat.

“Let’s see. . .” the operator paused, clearly scrolling through entire screens of X-ed out options. “You can order chicken broth!”

“Chicken broth?”

“Yes, chicken broth. Nothing else. Want some?”

I groaned. “I guess.”

I didn’t get to talk to the doctor that day. But when I called back at dinnertime to order more broth, I heard a new voice on the other end of the line. I guess there were multiple operators, or my nemesis had already gone home for the night.

“What can I get for you?” she asked.

I decided to try my luck. “French fries?”

Another pause. And then: “One order of french fries, coming right up!”

They even gave me ketchup.

This was written by Natalie Mead who runs Oops, My Brain and illustrated by Marissa Maciel (@marissaleicam)