While out and about, I faceplant on some stairs and cut my face badly. After the usual attempts to stop the bleeding, I realize that this is worse than I thought, so my husband and I head to the nearest urgent care clinic for some stitches.

When I see the doctor, he starts to clean and prep the cut.

Doctor: “I’m going to do as few stitches as I can — my thinnest sutures. It’ll barely scar; you won’t even be able to tell!”

Me: “Oh, okay. Great.”

The entire time he works, he reiterates that “it won’t scar” over and over. Around the fifth time, I’m starting to get a little annoyed. I’m sure he sees a lot of people, specifically women, who are anxious about scarring, but I never once expressed any kind of concern about it. I don’t care if I walk out of there looking like the Joker as long as he stops the bleeding and prevents infection.

But I want to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he’s a talker who gets stuck in a loop and doesn’t like to work in silence.

Doctor: “—so, not to worry, you’ll barely notice any scar.”

Me: “Well, if I do have a scar, then it’ll be a badge of honor, right?”

Doctor: *Startled* “But… that’s what we tell the boys!”

I gave up. In his defense, there really was very little scarring.

CONTENT WARNING: Blood

Twice a year, I donate blood with a special procedure called double red blood cell (DRBC) donating. Instead of just hooking my arm vein to a collection bag and letting pressure fill it, a machine withdraws a pint, centrifuges the red cells out, and then pumps the plasma portion back in. It does this twice per donation session, hence the “double” in the procedure. This is favored for blood donors of type O-negative.

I go in for my most recent donation. The phlebologist has a little trouble getting the needle into a vein on my right arm, so she has a supervisor come over and get the needle in correctly. She starts the DRBC machine, directing me to grip a rubber ball every few seconds to keep the blood flowing well.

After about four minutes, the machine starts making a gentle alarm beep. Since the procedure usually takes a half-hour, this is unusual. The phlebologist and her supervisor come over and try to clear the error that the machine has. He tries adjusting the needle in my arm, but that doesn’t stop the error beeps.

They then open the cabinet of the machine and recoil. Apparently, one of the centrifuge tubes has a leak, and for the last few minutes, my blood has just been spraying all over the interior of their machine. They quickly shut down the machine, apologizing that they have to stop the donation and that they can’t restart me elsewhere, because they’re not sure how much has been taken from me.

As I’m prepping to leave, other staff come over and look in the machine and recoil. I guess they’re squeamish if the blood isn’t in the nice clean collection bags.

For checking in appointments, my doctor’s office staff first asks for your birthday (American style).

Receptionist: “Birth date?”

Me: “Ten, twenty-eight, sixty-four.”

Receptionist: “Nineteen sixty-four?”

Me: *Thinking* “No, 1864. I’m 158 years old.”

Me: *Speaking* “Yes, 1964…”

When I was a substitute teacher, I would usually only accept assignments (via computer) that were in subjects I felt comfortable supervising. But one day, my only choice was a special education assignment. The reason I avoided it normally was that I felt the students deserved an adult trained to be of the best assistance to them.

Once I got to the school and room I was covering, I was relieved. They required a certain adult-to-student ratio, and I was just there to make sure that was met. The three other SpecEd teachers ran the class, and I helped supervise.

The first activity was a sharing exercise. The students sat in a circle, and then one at a time, they got up and shared how they were feeling, and then anything else they’d like to share. The main teacher was calling the students up one by one, and the first few bounced up and happily shared. But then, one boy, “Johnny”, just sat in his chair with his arms crossed, ignoring the teacher. Not making an issue of it, she just continued with the rest of the class.

After all the other students had shared, she walked back over to Johnny, knelt, and began talking to him gently.

Teacher: “Hey, Johnny. How’re you feeling today?”

Johnny: *Curtly* “I feel stubborn!”

And that answered why Johnny didn’t participate earlier: he felt stubborn. At least he was honest about it.

My family invited my nephew to visit just after Christmas. He had joined the US Army and was going to be stationed at Fort Sam Houston, which is in San Antonio where we live. We had a great time; he and my young daughter played on her new Nintendo, and we went to restaurants, parks, and other touristy spots.

On the day he needed to report, we were out and about. He had to be in uniform when he reported, but he didn’t want to be in uniform until then.

On the way to the base, we stopped at a local non-chain burger joint. My nephew came in with his uniform on hangers, and I asked the hostess if he could use their restroom to change. She said yes.

My daughter and I sat at their lunch counter and ordered a couple of sodas, figuring we should spend some money there since they were being nice enough to let him change. When my nephew came out a few minutes later, my daughter and I started getting ready to leave. I asked the employee behind the counter for our bill. He said it was no charge, and indicated my nephew, now standing beside us loud and proud in his uniform.

We didn’t even order a drink for my nephew, but they waived our bill because he was family. I make it a point to patronize their restaurant whenever we can.