I read this story and was already dreading the ending because I am a person with a uterus.

I was recently diagnosed with Lupus because of a work injury, so I currently have three doctors: a specialist, my primary doctor, and my worker’s comp doctor.

I had to get my arm X-rayed.

Nurse: “When did you have your last period?”

Me: “[Date about three weeks prior]. My next one is due in five days.”

The app on my phone is a lifesaver.

Nurse: “Any chance you got a baby going on in there?”

She’s always funny; I love it when she does my intake.

Me: “None. Yes, I am sexually active, but our birth control is one hundred percent effective. I’m addicted to lesbianism.”

Not a bad outcome. [Specialist] wanted full-body X-rays to see the deterioration of my joints — fun times. 

X-Ray Tech: “Any chance you may be pregnant?”

Me: “My girlfriend loves to try, but we have found that we can’t make one.”

Yes, I know, don’t be rude to medical staff, but I have heard that question fifty million times. Mentioning [Girlfriend] usually shuts down the follow-up, and I’ve gotten sarcastic over the years.

X-Ray Tech: “Right on. Let’s get these pictures and get you home to the girlfriend. Is she pretty?”

Me: “Very, and my best friend.”

And then comes the bad one — the one that every uterus owner dreads. I needed antibiotics because of an infection unrelated to everything else. 

Doctor: “When was the first date of your last period?”

Me: “[Second week of December].”

Doctor: “It’s January.”

Me: “I know. My app says I can start any day now.”

Doctor: “It’s been twenty-five days. You’re probably pregnant.”

Me: “There are a couple of issues I take with your statement. It’s been twenty-three days; these little numbers tell me that. Since I started at eleven years old, my cycle has been twenty-five days. My girlfriend’s is twenty-eight days, and I have a friend who has a regular medically checked-out forty-day cycle. Second, I’m not able to get pregnant because I live with, sleep with, raise a cat with, and have sex with another uterus owner.”

I’m non-binary; we use trans-inclusive language.

Doctor: “Do you use condoms?”

Me: “…On the toys, to make clean-up easier.”

Doctor: “And you’re not on hormonal birth control, so you’re probably pregnant. You should take a test before you start antibiotics.”

Me: “[Doctor], my partner is a girl. I don’t have a medical degree, but I do know how babies are made. You need, at the very least, sperm. I have not had sex with or even kissed someone who makes sperm since 2018. I have hugged a few, but all our clothes stayed on. I have not gone to a sperm bank or in any other way had sperm near me since 2013. I am not pregnant.”

She flat-out refused to give me the script. I flat-out refused to leave without a second opinion.

The second doctor took my no and the girlfriend thing as proof that I was not pregnant and gave me the script.

Reasonable Doctor: “Not like it matters much; we’re giving you low-grade antibiotics that are perfectly safe for pregnant people.”

The infection is gone, and my period started the day after that whole interaction. Turns out I am not pregnant. Who knew?

Related:
Cause For Pregnant Pause, Part 18
Cause For Pregnant Pause, Part 17
Cause For Pregnant Pause, Part 16
Cause For Pregnant Pause, Part 15
They Don’t Always C When They’re Sticking To The Script

Strap in; this is a long one that has been a fight since 2009. I grew up in Wyoming, but I live in California now and have since 2018. My mom passed when I was fifteen in 2009. When my mom passed, I got survivor benefits. The government gives you monthly pay as a form of child support for the now single parent — in this case, my dad.

When I was a kid, we were religious about the paperwork once a year. When I hit my eighteenth birthday in 2012 but hadn’t finished high school, I applied for an extension, and after many hours in the office and on the phone, I was granted benefits until graduation.

When graduation hit in 2013, I filed the paperwork to get my benefits terminated, I didn’t want to deal with overpay. All was good and I went on to be an adult with a diploma.

Somehow, despite all of this, I was charged an overpayment. Like many people who have to deal with the US government for any period of time, I decided I didn’t want to fight this. I paid it back and moved on with my life.

Since all of this, I have moved to California, held down many jobs (AKA paid into my Social Security fund for retirement), received benefits (virus, unemployment, and so on), and paid bills in CALIFORNIA! This is so important. Also of note: I handled all of my benefits for the last year I was getting them. My phone number was attached to the account, and I have had the same phone number since I was thirteen. I am twenty-eight now.

I was sleeping in on my day off, planning on going to the beach later with my partner and my cat — yes, we take our cat to the beach — when my phone rang.

Dad: “Hello, [My Name]. How are you?”

Me: “Unfortunately, I am awake an hour before I actually wanted to be, but I’ll survive. What’s up?”

My dad and I have low contact; he never calls me.

Dad: “I got a call from the Social Security office. They want to talk to you. You’ve told me not to give your number out without permission, so I am going to give you the number they want you to call.”

Despite my issues, I am willing to admit that my dad is an intelligent guy, unlikely to be scammed, but my twenty-eight-year-old millennial brain immediately went “red flag”.

Me: “Are you sure it’s not a scam? Because if you woke me up on my day off for a scam, I am going to be very cross.”

Dad: “I Googled the number. It’s the Social Security office in Cheyenne (Wyoming).”

I took the number and called them immediately. The office — which had literally just bothered my dad — was closed. In my sleep-addled brain, I failed to take into account that with timezones they would only be closed for three more minutes, not another hour. I went back to sleep.

Twenty minutes later, I got another phone call. Cue me getting out of bed because, clearly, I was not going to sleep anymore.

Dad: “Did you call?”

Me: “Yes, it was closed. I will call soon.”

Dad: “They called me again.”

Me: “Okay, I’ll do it now.”

I called the number, got through the automated process, and got an agent. I explained the two phone calls my dad had gotten, gave them all my information, and so on.

Agent #1: “Your account is closed.”

Me: “Yes, I know. I want to know what is needed to get the issue dealt with.”

I was put on hold for half an hour. They picked up again, surprised I hadn’t hung up, and put me on hold again. Finally, the agent came back and told me I had been underpaid. He said if I gave my bank information, I would get a check direct-deposited. Cool. I gave my information and updated my account with my new address and current (only) phone number.

Four business days passed, and I called on the fifth; I had been told it would take two business days. I got an automated machine and then, finally, an agent, and gave them my whole life story (Social Security number, birthday, full name, and so on).

Me: “Hello. I am calling to check on a benefits underpayment. I was told it would clear on Thursday. It’s Friday.”

I heard the clickety-clackety of the keys of a computer.

Agent #2: “Your account has been closed since 2013.”

I explained again what I had been told, and then they verified my information.

Agent #2: “Okay. Are you still at [address I have not lived at since 2013]?”

Me: “No, I’m in California, which I told the last agent.”

Once again, my address was updated.

Agent #2: “Now, we have this phone number: [my dad’s phone number].”

Me: “No, I have been at [my number] since I was thirteen, which I also updated with the last agent.”

So, all of my information had been updated twice, and surprise, surprise, my bank information was nowhere to be found, so I handed that over, as well. Now, I was watching my accounts for fraud just in case. Having been burned, I gave them the weekend and Monday because I got called in early.

On Tuesday on my lunch break, I called again, hidden in the manager’s office, which I asked to use for the sensitive information. I went through the automated machine again and once again gave my life story as I got through to [Agent #3]. She had an attitude from the second she answered the phone, but I tried to be pleasant; I have a code against yelling at people. 

Me: “I am just calling to make sure my updated information has actually made it into the system and that my direct deposit will be set up.”

Agent #3: “We can’t help with direct deposit; you can only do that in person. Is your address [current address in California] or [old address in Wyoming]?”

Me: “California. I am sorry, but I have been on this call twice before and I have been helped.”

Agent #3: “Obviously not. Is phone number [my phone number] or [my dad’s phone number]?”

Me: “[My phone number]. Ma’am, I am not lying; I called on [date #1] and [date #2] about overpayment and gave my details and bank account information.”

Agent #3: “I don’t have your bank account information. You probably called a scam number.”

Me: “I called this same number we’re talking on now.”

Agent #3: “You’ll have to go to the Cheyenne office to get this sorted.”

Me: “I live in California.”

Agent #3: “Well, those are your options.”

I have an embarrassing tendency to cry when I get frustrated or angry, so I was working on controlling my voice. I didn’t want this awful woman to think she’d made me cry. Also, all of this had brought up the loss of my mom — not a good feeling.

Me: “Can I talk to your supervisor?”

I don’t usually do this, but she had officially run to the end of my patience.

Agent #3: “I’m the supervisor this morning.”

I hung up.

So, on my next day off, I went to the office — in California. (Sorry, I had this argument for weeks, like I don’t know where I live and work.) I got there at opening, waited for an hour and a half, and got to an agent.

Agent #4: “Your account is closed.”

I head-desked — not literally but I promise that desk looked mighty promising. Cue a long — very long; you are probably no longer reading — explanation. Cue frowns from the agent, some clicking, and her stepping away. A supervisor came over, frowned at the computer, and asked me to go sit in the waiting room for a specialist.

The specialist was very friendly and helpful.

Specialist #1: “Your account for survivor benefits is closed and can’t be reopened, but when the mistake was found, we opened a second account for you attached to the first. Since the second account is only getting one check, it’s temporary. We sent the check to [old address in Wyoming] back in March.”

Dear readers, it was July at this point.

Specialist #1: “It was returned, so we called [my mom’s old number]—” *WTF?* “—and then [my dad’s old number]. When we couldn’t reach anyone, we put the account in termination. Details can’t be updated to a termination account except in person.”

[Agent #1] and [Agent #2] lied. [Agent #3] was right. I kind of hate her for it.

We updated all my information, again. For those keeping track, that’s three times.

Specialist #1: “Now, we can’t put bank account information on this account because of its status, so you will get a paper check in three weeks, or you can go to the payment center in [City twenty minutes away] to get it anytime before the check arrives.”

I waited three weeks and then tried to call to get an update. No one knew anything. Surprise, surprise.

Finally, after week four, I drove to the payment center. I just wanted to be done, take the money, plant a flower for Mom, and maybe go back to being a functional human; my mental health had taken a hit for all this.

After a full hour of waiting in the sun and forty more minutes in the muggy, not at all air-conditioned waiting room, in August, I finally got through to see yet another agent. Well, they were a specialist because that was a note in my file. We went through the whole song and dance again, and then she popped off with this.

Specialist #2: “Do you have proof that you need this money today?”

Me: “I wasn’t told I needed it. I was told I could come in at any point before I got a check. I have no check, and my partner and I would like to use this extra money on a vacation we have planned.”

We had already saved for this vacation; we had reservations, tickets, and money for food and souvenirs. The only thing the Social Security money would be used for would be an extra cushion (which we did need when my partner ran into wrongful termination a month later).

Specialist #2: “You need proof that you will lose your home or house or have utilities shut off if you don’t get these funds in three days.”

I was fortunate enough to not have any of these. I asked for an update, and she now said I’d receive the check six weeks from this visit. I walked back out to my car, cried, and drove home.

A week later, the money was direct-deposited into my bank account — which they’d said they couldn’t do. I am still livid, but it helped us survive while my partner found a new job, and we were able to move out of that small apartment to one closer to both our jobs.

This story is part of our Not Always Working Most-Epic Stories roundup!

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Work has sent me off to Chicago to conduct a training. I have arrived at the airport in San Diego, but the plane is delayed. It happens, but I’m now worried about my connection since the flight is not direct.

While we’re waiting, there is a small earthquake. Is this going to affect my flight? Yes and no. It is large enough to be felt but small enough that they’re just taking the reports of all the staff that there is no damage at face value and continuing. But my flight is still delayed. What was supposed to have been a 9:00 am flight is now well after noon, but it still hasn’t been canceled.

The flight finally comes, but I have clearly missed my connection, and by the time they get me onto a new plane for Chicago and I get into O’Hare, it’s about midnight. The rental car agency has closed, and I need to get to North Chicago, about thirty miles away. My hotel is also up there.

My first decision is to find a room where I am, get my rental car in the morning, and hightail it up to my location to hopefully get there in time. However, the cost of the hotel by the airport is outrageous, so I make some more phone calls and find a long-haul taxi service to get me to my hotel. I have called to let them know that I am here but I’m stuck at the airport.

Fortunately for me, the training is taking place at a location right across the street from the hotel, so I don’t need transportation if I can just get to the hotel. They understand and say that they’ll be waiting for me and will have all the paperwork set up so that all I’ll need to do when I get there is sign on the line and I can go straight to bed.

The taxi driver is very sympathetic to my plight.

Taxi Driver: “How are you going to get back to the airport?”

Me: “I’ll either have someone at the training give me a ride back or find another taxi service to get me back.”

Taxi Driver: “No, no, I’ll have none of that. When is your flight out, and when do you expect to be done with training?”

I tell him, and I point out that the timing is such that I’ll pretty much need to leave immediately after the training in order to have enough time to get to the airport and through security to make my flight.

Taxi Driver: “I’ll make sure that I’m available at that time.”

He gives me his business card.

Taxi Driver: “Call me an hour before you think you’ll be done so I can be there to collect you.”

The next day went off pretty much just fine. I did my training, I called the driver, and he came to get me, driving a bit quickly (but not recklessly) in order to get me to the airport on time.

To that taxi driver, thank you so much for this. I’m sure that part of it was that you’d have a good fare, but it was still exactly what I needed given the predicament that I was in.

And by the way: when I got to the hotel, the paperwork was right there, I signed, and they directed me to the room that was right there on the first floor by the front desk: room 101.

It was actually a very nice room.

At my job, we have a number system. To come in, pull a number and wait until we call this number. We have huge signs all over the place. As anyone who has worked retail (or read this site) can tell you, customers don’t read signs.

A million and one times a day I am calling out numbers and get a customer asking where the numbers are. While the big red number dispenser in the middle of the floor has four different signs pointing at it and is literally right next to your elbow.

This is fine, whatever. They take a number and wait. Until this woman.

Me: “Sixteen, can I please help guest number sixteen?”

Customer: “I have been waiting for twenty minutes! When is someone going to help me?”

She hasn’t. I literally watched her just walk in.

Me: *Cheery smile even though I can tell she’s going to be a nightmare.* “I’m so sorry ma’am. We have to help customers with the numbers they pull. If you pull a number from the red dispenser, we will give you a shout when it’s your turn.”

I gesture to the number dispenser and turn to number sixteen, a patient woman who waits for the other to walk toward the dispenser before asking me about a product. As I am helping my customer, I keep an eye on this woman. Some customers need ‘help’ getting a number. I got around the counter and show her the number dispenser and pulled out number twenty and hand it to her.

Me: “My coworker is helping seventeen and I will help eighteen. It shouldn’t be more than ten minutes.”

I am still smiling even as my teeth are starting to grind. She walks around looking lost and annoyed and bugs another coworker who checks her number and tells her she will be helped when we get to twenty. Somehow in two minutes she loses her number. I wrap up eighteen.

Me: “Number nineteen, please.”

She saunters up. I know she’s not nineteen. I keep my smile plastered on my face.

Me: “Sorry, ma’am, I am helping nineteen. You’re next after that.”

Customer: “I’m in a hurry so I am between eighteen and nineteen.”

The math doesn’t work but whatever. I want to tell her to get stuffed. I want to help nineteen who is standing behind this woman looking longingly at the bread behind my head. My manager has noticed the commotion and tells me to help the entitled brat. I get my coworker to take nineteen and I deal with her order.

It’s ridiculously complicated and time-consuming. She has this condescending tone that says she got exactly what she wanted. I don’t say another word except yes ma’am and no ma’am. Several items if ordered differently would be cheaper. I tell guests this usually, but she didn’t want to follow the rules. By inconveniencing everyone she lost money and I took my sweet time putting it together.

By the time I am finished the lobby has filled and emptied several times. If she had waited her turn, I would have helped her save time and money and I would have asked another worker for help. Oops.

My boyfriend and are closing in on our one-year anniversary. He is very good with his hands and keeps himself happy by always having some project to occupy them. Knowing this, I go out of my way to buy the most complicated modeling kit I can find. It’s of a famous clock tower and has hundreds of tiny, intricate pieces, so I know it will take him a long time to complete.

Our anniversary rolls around and I give him his gift. He is delighted by it. He then presents me with his gift: a pair of socks with a couple of cartoon characters on them. While they are from my favorite cartoon and the gesture is sweet, when comparing them to the modeling kit, I’m unable to keep from looking disappointed. He only seems amused by my reaction.

As I awkwardly thank him for the gift, he asks me:

Boyfriend: “Do you want to know a secret?”

I say, “Sure,” not expecting much.

Boyfriend: “Well, you know how you always have trouble finding clothes that fit?”

I had emergency surgery after an accident that left my torso with an unusual shape.

Boyfriend: “I decided to learn how to knit, sew, and crochet, so now I can make you anything you want. I made those socks in a day.”

Now, I was looking at the socks in amazement. They looked professionally made. He had taught himself how to make professional-looking clothes in less than a year! I think I might have started crying if I wasn’t so blown away.

Last month, my now-husband and I celebrated three years of marriage. For our anniversary, he taught himself metalworking so he could make me authentic items for when we go to the Renaissance Faire.