(I am in the waiting room of a hospital waiting for a scan to check out my back injury. For the purposes of this story, let’s just say that my name is John Smith. The nurse calls me in for my scan.)

Nurse: “All right, just jump up onto the table.”

Me: “Umm… sorry, I can’t do that.”

Nurse: “We can’t do the scan if you don’t get on the table.”

Me: “But… I can barely move. How do you expect me to jump onto a table?”

Nurse: “Sure, you can.”

Me: “I don’t think you understand. I am physically unable to get up onto the table due to a back injury.”

Nurse: “You don’t have a back injury.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but I’m pretty sure I would know why I’m at the hospital.”

Nurse: “Your name is John Smith, right?”

Me: “Yes.”

Nurse: “And your date of birth is [date]?”

Me: “Yes, it is.”

(A patient in the waiting room speaks up.)

Patient: “Sorry to interrupt, but I think you might have us confused.”

Nurse: “Your name is John Smith?”

Patient: “Yep.”

Nurse: “And I suppose your date of birth is also [date].”

Patient: “Yes.”

Nurse: “And you’re here for a scan?”

Patient: “Yes, I am.”

Nurse: “Well, this is an interesting coincidence.”

(She looks down at her computer.)

Nurse: “Ah, I see the problem. There are two different people named John Smith with the same birthday, who just happened to both have appointments for a scan within the same hour. I was looking for John M. Smith.”

Patient: “That’s me!”

(The nurse apologized and I got my scan not long after. It was a confusing few minutes, but at least I got a good story out of it!)

(I work for a pediatric dental practice. We are currently at our surgical center where kids get put to sleep so we can do all of the work necessary. There’s loads of paperwork, normal doctor check-ups, and numerous confirmations that patients’ parents need to go through before we see them. We have a two-year-old girl that needs work on every single tooth; she’s been on our waitlist for surgery for two months. We are about to bring her back to the OR.)

Nurse: “Okay, sweetheart, time to say bye to Mommy.”

Mom: *looking so confused* “Wait, why is she saying bye?”

Nurse: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you aren’t allowed into the OR for sterilization purposes.”

Mom: “But how is she supposed to fall asleep without me reading her a story?”

Nurse: “The anesthesiologist–”

Mom: “The what?!”

CONTENT WARNING: This story contains content of a medical nature. It is not intended as medical advice.

(In college, I start getting severe fatigue; I am sleeping ten hours a night, getting an hour or two nap each day, and still feeling exhausted all the time. I go to the student health center where they do some blood tests and diagnose me with hypothyroidism, where my thyroid doesn’t produce enough hormone. I am given a prescription for the generic of a synthetic thyroid hormone, and things improve drastically for several months. But after I have my prescription filled at a different pharmacy, I start having different symptoms: anxiety, feeling jittery all the time, being unreasonably cold, etc. I go back to the health center where they run more blood tests. This is what happens at the followup appointment when those blood test results come back.)

Doctor: “So, your thyroid hormone levels are much too high. You have hyperthyroidism.” *goes into treatment options, which basically boil down to either radiation to kill off part of my thyroid or surgery to remove part of it*

Me: “Okay. Well, before we start talking about surgery, don’t you think we should try reducing my [medication] dosage?”

Doctor: *stares at me for a second, then reads my chart more carefully* “Ah. Yes, yes, we should probably try that first.”

(A DIFFERENT doctor in the health center was able to explain that I’m in a small group of people that are sufficiently sensitive to thyroid hormone that the different levels in different generic brands can act like a completely different dosage, meaning that I need to be on the name brand to ensure my dosage stays constant. We put me on the name brand and I didn’t have any more problems, and I never saw the other doctor again.)

(I have myriad medical issues which give me some bother. I have an appointment with my primary care doctor. This office knows about all of my conditions. I get to the building and ride the elevator to the fourth floor. I get into the office and go to the check-in desk. There are two office workers there. One I know; the other I don’t. The worker who I don’t know goes to check me in and sees I’m breathing quite heavily.)

Worker: “Walk the steps today?”

Me: “No. I have congestive heart failure.” 

(The worker couldn’t get her foot out of her mouth, it was wedged in so deeply. The other worker, the one I knew, just burst out laughing so hard that she spit out part of her sandwich. I did let the first worker off the hook and said I didn’t care what she said. I was not offended at all. It was just too funny.)

(My high school chemistry teacher is a very stern, organized lady. One of my friends is very bright but not organized at all, and he hates the very structured reports we have to make of our chemistry labs. He is constantly getting points off for one detail or another. One facet of these reports is that they are required to have two columns: one for equations and one for long-form notes. One lab, my friend and I are partnered and he actually is trying to do his report properly. The chemistry teacher comes to look over our work and taps his chemistry notebook disapprovingly.)

Teacher: “You haven’t labeled these columns; how am I supposed to know which is equations and which is notes?”

Friend: “See the one with numbers in it? That’s the equations column.”

(My friend immediately looked horrified with himself. He and the teacher just stared at each other for a long moment, and then she finally just huffed and moved on to the next group. I do realize that such labels are probably useful in a real laboratory, but to be fair to my friend, the teacher did sort of set herself up for that!)