I’m at the dentist having some work done. The dentist has just placed a permanent crown in and is attempting to floss around it. Unfortunately, the floss keeps getting stuck because of the cement. He asks his assistant to hand him a tool to help and it isn’t exactly one I was expecting.

Dentist: “Pass me the saw.”

I’m surprised and try to figure out if I heard right.

Dentist: “It has what looks like little saw teeth on it.”

Nope, I definitely heard right. Once she handed it to him, I could see that it was a very thin, flexible piece of metal with tiny teeth. It reminded me of a band saw blade. He used it to go between the crown and the tooth next to it to break up the excess cement. It worked perfectly, but it was not something I considered a dentist having.

I work at a healthcare clinic as a receptionist. Due to HIPAA policies, whenever I call a client, I have to confirm I am actually speaking to the client. If I am speaking to someone else, I am not allowed to disclose the reason I am calling. I typically say something generic like, “This is the doctor’s office.” This doesn’t always soothe people’s curiosities, though.

Me: “Hello, is [Client] there?”

Caller: “No, she is busy.”

Me: “Okay. This is the doctor’s office. Can you ask her to call us back?”

Caller: “The doctor’s? Which doctor?”

Me: “I am not allowed to say. Can I leave a callback number?”

Caller: “You’re not allowed to say? What is this? Russia?”

I guess following the federal American law of not giving away personal information is considered by some to be an act of Communism?

About two and a half years ago, I started working as a health care assistant in the local women’s prison.

All in all, it was an okay job. I got on with most of the women, especially those who would stop me to ask about my day or just tell me about the new photo their friends or family sent. The officers were nice, if a little dismissive of genuine health problems at times.

I left the job after almost two years, but I still work there sporadically to keep my hand in, so to speak. I am working today.

The day starts as normal: handover and then medication rounds.

My registered practitioner is late in, due to a prior agreement we were not made aware of, so we go to the prison wing and find out that the lone officer won’t have a second for an hour. We need two officers for meds: one to supervise the girls taking the meds and one to unlock and lock up.

No problem. We get some admin done.

Meds start, and all is going well until two girls end up in a verbal altercation and are restrained back to their cells.

We then change sides to do the other section of the wing on the other side of the building. It’s slow, but everyone gets medicated. Then, it’s just clean up and breakfast. It’s about 11:30.

Now, to clarify, as a member of healthcare, I am required to carry a radio. We take a call sign and respond to location updates and alarms. Most notable alarms are our emergency codes. Code Red is heavy bleeding. Think a bloodbath, sprayed on the walls type. Code Blue is unresponsive or not breathing.

For either of these, it’s not uncommon to see five staff members sprinting the length of the prison with a 15-kg bag in tow.

We get set up to go back to our office in the centre of the prison, when an alarm is sent across the radios, signalled by a near-deafening klaxon.

Control: “Code Blue, [MY WING]. Acknowledge [OFFICER AND GOVERNOR IN CHARGE]. Acknowledge [NURSE IN CHARGE].”

Safe to say I’m hauling this 15-kg bag down two flights of stairs whilst trying to locate the cell.

As I arrive, the officer in charge of that wing tells me the patient is fine.

Officer: “There’s nothing wrong with her.”

Either way, I entered and tried to rouse the woman, a known epileptic. 

In the next thirty minutes, this woman suffered twenty-four witnessed seizures, each lasting between twenty and sixty seconds. She did not regain consciousness between, and she left for the hospital with the paramedics.

She returned later, self-discharged due to a fear of hospitals, but understandably tired and sore.

So much for “nothing wrong with her!”

I am a receptionist at a secondary school. This happens during December 2020, when we have several students and staff contracting a well-known illness. Every day, more students are having to go home and isolate and MOST of them are doing their best to stick to the rules.

The phone rings.

Me: “Hello, [School]. How can I help?”

Caller: “Hi, I’m the mother of [Student]. I’ve just had her test result back and it’s positive.”

Me: “Okay, I’m sorry to hear that. Thanks for letting us know. Could I speak to [Student] to get a list of her close friends as they will need to self-isolate?”

Caller: “What do you mean? She’s not here; she’s in school.”

Me: “Excuse me? You sent her into school whilst waiting for her test result?!”

After spending a few seconds headdesking, I told the parent to come and pick up her child immediately and rushed up to collect them. I realise the rules are confusing, but the guidance — and common sense — is clear that if you are tested, you need to stay at home until you get your result!

I am an older man at the doctor’s office. I have just been shown into the examination room. I am sitting in a chair, glancing at a magazine, waiting for the doctor. Suddenly, this woman rushes in wearing an examination gown and promptly sits on the exam table. She looks at me.

Woman: “Well, get on with it! I’m in a hurry, you know!”

Me: “…”

Woman: “Put down that magazine and do your… whatever it is you do. Where’s your white coat? Aren’t you a doctor? What are you, a nurse? Maybe the janitor? Where’s my doctor? What are you doing in here? Where’re my clothes?”

Me: “Look, this is my—”

Woman: “Who are you? Get out of here! What are you, some kind of pervert?” *Loudly screaming* “HELP! I’m being attacked! Get out of here! HELP ME!”

A nurse rushes in.

Woman: “Help, this pervert is attacking me! Get him out of here!”

I am shocked and confused.

Me: “I was just sitting—”

Woman: “Where’re my clothes?! He stole my clothes! Get him out of here!”

Nurse: “Ma’am, you’re in the wrong—”

The woman starts screaming at the top of her voice.

Woman: “Get him out of here! HELP, POLICE!”

Nurse: *To me* “Please leave for a few minutes until I get this straightened out.”

I grabbed my coat and hat and ran out of the room and just stood in the hall, totally confused by what was going on, wondering if I was really in the wrong room.

The doctor and a couple of other nurses soon arrived and rushed into the room; the woman was still screaming, out of control. I wanted to just leave but was afraid that the woman’s false accusations of me attacking her could bring the police. My old PTSD was starting to kick in and I was frozen in place.

After what seemed like forever, the doctor came out, escorted me to another room, and shut the door. I didn’t know WHAT was going on. I was scared!

After a while, the doctor and two nurses came into my room and asked me what happened. I told them what I had seen and how it had affected me. They left for a while. Later, they came back and reported that the woman had been instructed to go to the restroom to give a urine sample and had returned to the wrong room, that they had gotten her calmed down, and that I was NOT in trouble. It was a simple misunderstanding. It sure wasn’t “simple” to me!

Trembling, I told them that I was just sitting there reading a magazine, that I never left my chair, and that I SURE had not assaulted her in any way. They said that they believed me and that the woman had agreed that I never got out of the chair until I left.

The doctor gave me a quick examination. My blood pressure was through the roof! He had me wait there and calm down and then asked if I would like to reschedule my appointment. I agreed, with the understanding that I would never again be scheduled at the same time as that woman.

I don’t know what happened to the woman, but I never want to see her again. I had to sit in my car for a while before I thought it safe to drive.