I work in healthcare, and last week, I had a patient call in to reschedule her upcoming appointment.

Me: “I can give you our next available time, which is 10:00 am on [day] next week.”

Patient: “I can’t do mornings.”

Me: “Okay. The next available appointment with [Provider] at our office isn’t for a few months; it’s on [date] at [time].”

She refused that appointment. I then offered her appointments at one of our other offices, but she refused those, as well. She begrudgingly took the first 10:00 am slot I offered her.

I came to find out that the reason she couldn’t do mornings was that her medication made her sick in the morning. Now, she didn’t tell me this. I found it out from our nurse, who I guess the patient called and begged for another appointment after she got off the phone with me. You would think that would be the end of that, but it wasn’t.

Two days after this happened, I got called into my boss’ office and asked about the situation. Apparently, the patient reported me for being “unkind” to her. Had she told me the reason why she couldn’t do morning appointments, I would have gone out of my way to accommodate her needs. But she didn’t; she just refused the appointments offered to her.

So, no, ma’am, I was not “unkind” to you. You just didn’t give me all of the information I needed.

CONTENT WARNING: Injured Animal (Dog bite, infection, but recovery!)

My cat is an indoor-outdoor cat. He is a very sweet, laid-back cat, and he loves everyone. One night, he came home and I saw one small piece of fur out of place.

Me: “He’s sick!”

Brother: “What do you mean? He’s acting fine — still eating, playing, and letting us pet and hold him.”

Me: “Yes, but that fur is out of place. He’s a meticulous groomer. Something’s wrong.”

My family didn’t believe me.

The next morning, the cat came in and there was now a very large lump where the messed-up piece of fur was. We thought he might have a hernia, even though he was still acting fine. I decided to wait until the next day since I had to go to work.

That night, the lump was gone. In its place was a hole about two inches wide and an inch deep. I put the cat in a crate and took him to the vet first thing the next morning. He had only been to the vet once, to get neutered.

The vet came in and asked me to take him out of the carrier. I did, and as I held him in one arm, my cat was curled on his back, feet in the air, tongue sticking out, and purring. The vet stared at him.

Vet: “That… is a very weird cat. He should be freaking out because he has a huge hole in his side.”

Me: “Yeah, he’s pretty laid-back. Here.” 

I handed him over, and my cat just stared at the vet like, “Dude… pet me.”

It turned out that he had been bitten by a dog and had a huge infection that took up one whole side of his body. But after surgery and medicine, he was fine again. He lived for almost seventeen years and made several people who hated cats come to love them.

CONTENT WARNING: War, Serious Injury (Limb Amputation)
 

My grandfather was conscripted into the Red Army. In 1944, he fought from Stalingrad to Budapest as a tank driver. In Budapest, his tank was blown up, and he managed to get out with only one leg to be amputated.

A few weeks later, in the hospital, he got a false leg and was told that he was not allowed to drive anymore.

As he got up, a nurse helped him out of the hospital. A commissar walked up to him.

Commissar: “Comrade, I see you are ready to fight for the people again.”

Nurse: “But he cannot walk, let alone fight!”

Commissar: “Nonsense! He’s got both legs, both arms, and a head. That’s enough!”

My grandfather realised that the commissar was trying to joke with this description. The nurse, however, did not. Instead, she grabbed his false leg and pulled it — pulled it straight out of his pants while my grandfather was leaning on her.

Nurse: “See? He can not run anymore; he even has to relearn how to walk.”

The commissar turned white, the nurse was all red, and my grandfather started laughing. The commissar told him to spend some time walking and getting used to the new leg and then just walked away.

The nurse became my grandmother, and they lived happily together.

Client: “I want to get my dog vaccinated, but I’m worried. Is there a risk of autism from vaccines from dogs like there is from humans?”

I think, “I’m not going to get involved with your crazy bulls***, but vaccines don’t cause autism.” But out loud, I say:

Me: “No, ma’am. Dogs can’t get autism, ma’am. Only humans.”

Client: “Oh, good. Make sure my little fuzzy boy gets all of his vaccines, then!”

Me: “Yes, ma’am.”

My son is autistic. When he was ten years old, before the Internet, he became fascinated with everything related to pharmacology. I bought him a white jacket and a clip-on tie so he could be a pharmacist for Halloween. He carried around an out-of-date copy of The Physician’s Desk Reference, which listed everything about every medication.

That was all well and good… until…

My landlady came over looking for advice. She had visited a tropical country the previous year and had to obtain certain immunizations. She was returning to that same country and wanted to know if she could get away with not repeating the same immunizations.

My son didn’t know and couldn’t find it in his book.  

But my goodness, who takes medical advice from a ten-year-old?