My substitute teacher confiscated my inhaler saying, “Asthmatics just want attention.”

Описание: My substitute teacher confiscated my inhaler and locked it in her desk, saying "asthmatics just want attention."
I've had severe asthma since I was five, and my rescue inhaler isn't just medication—it's literally life or death. Every teacher at Roosevelt High knew about my condition. My regular teachers kept backup inhalers in their desks, just in case.
But Mrs. Crawford was different. She was this bitter substitute in her sixties who treated teaching like a prison sentence. The moment she walked into our chemistry class, she announced her rules: "No phones, no food, no excuses, and absolutely no disruptions."
When my chest started tightening during her lecture about molecular bonds, I quietly reached for my inhaler. The room was stuffy, the old ventilation system wasn't working, and I could feel that familiar squeeze in my lungs.
"Put that away immediately," Mrs. Crawford snapped, stopping mid-sentence.
"It's my inhaler," I wheezed, trying to keep my voice steady. "I have asthma."
She marched over and snatched it from my hands. "I've been teaching for thirty years. Half you kids fake these 'conditions' for attention. You'll get it back after class."
My classmates stared in shock as she locked my inhaler in her desk drawer. "But I might need it," I protested, my breathing already becoming more labored.
"Then you should have thought about that before trying to disrupt my lesson," she said coldly. "Asthmatics are just dramatic. Real emergencies don't happen during math problems."
Twenty minutes later, I was hunched over my desk, taking shallow, careful breaths. My friend Jake kept glancing at me nervously. "Mrs. Crawford," he said, "Riley looks really bad."
"She's fine," she dismissed without looking up from her book. "Stop enabling the attention-seeking behavior."
That's when my vision started getting fuzzy around the edges. I raised my shaking hand, trying to signal for help, but she ignored me completely.
Jake didn't hesitate. He bolted from his seat and ran straight to the nurse's office, ignoring Mrs. Crawford's angry shouts about hall passes. What she didn't know was that my mom was the school nurse.
Three minutes later, my mom burst through the classroom door in her scrubs, emergency inhaler in hand. The look on her face when she saw me gasping for air was pure fury.
"Where is her medication?" she demanded, rushing to my side.
Mrs. Crawford looked confused. "Who are you?"
"I'm the school nurse. And his mother." Mom's voice was deadly calm as she helped me with the inhaler. "You took a life-saving medication from a student with documented asthma?"
The color drained from Mrs. Crawford's face as she realized her mistake. "I... I didn't know you were..."
"That my daughter could die without her medication? That's written in his file, posted on your desk, and required by law to be disclosed to all substitutes."
Mom turned to the class, all twenty-six students recording with their phones. "Anyone else see this teacher confiscate medical equipment from a student having an emergency?"
Every hand in the room shot up.
Within an hour, Mrs. Crawford was escorted off campus by security. The school board called an emergency meeting that afternoon. By evening, the local news was running the story: "Substitute Teacher Confiscates Student's Life-Saving Medication."
Mrs. Crawford never taught again. And every substitute since then gets a mandatory briefing about medical accommodations before entering any classroom.