(I am in a waiting room at the medical centre. A female doctor calls a man’s name.)
Male Patient: *to receptionist* “Hey, that’s a woman doctor!”
Receptionist: “Yes, and it’s her first day, so we’re letting her practice on you.”
Male Patient: “Hmph. I didn’t come here for no woman doctor.” *leaves*
(I’m pregnant with my daughter and at the hospital to have labor induced. The nurse is going over final checks and running down how the birthing is going to — ideally — go.)
Nurse: “We may need to give you a blood transfusion if you bleed too much. Let me explain the benefits–”
Me: “Approved. B+.”
Nurse: “Um… Okay… Sign this form.”
(We go through some other routine stuff and get to treating the baby after she’s born.)
Nurse: “It’s standard to give a Hep B and Vitamin K shot to the baby. You don’t have to, of course, but the benefits are…”
Me: “Do it. All the shots.”
Nurse: “Oh, thank God!”
(She caught herself and apologized for her breach of bedside manner. We have a few religious sects in the area that are anti-transfusion and anti-vax, so I can imagine the pushback she got day-to-day. I laughed and explained that we are a “science” family and the awkwardness melted away. The rest of the checks and forms were done relatively quickly now that the nurse knew she didn’t have to sell me on everything. The birth went mostly smoothly and my daughter is now a healthy fifteen-month-old.)
(I donate blood about every two months, provided that I’m healthy enough to do so. One thing the blood bank screens for is anemia: my hematocrit has to be 38 or higher to donate and not become anemic from it. Hematocrit in the low 30s is anemic; around mid-20s you’d probably need a transfusion yourself. But some time in the last eight weeks, the blood bank switched to testing hemoglobin instead, the minimum donation number for which is 12.5. I didn’t know it was a new test.)
Phlebotomist: “Okay, your temperature, blood pressure, and pulse look good. Let’s test your iron.” *pricks my finger, takes a few drops of blood, and puts them in the tester* “You’re testing at 12.6.”
Me: “My hematocrit is 12.6? Should I go to the hospital?”
Phlebotomist: “What? Why? Oh! No, your hemoglobin is 12.6, which for our purposes is equivalent to a 39 hematocrit. You’re fine to donate. If you had a 12.6 hematocrit, you’d be unconscious at least. I’d be calling an ambulance… or a hearse.”
This story is part of our Blood Donation roundup!
(It’s my first visit to the dentist in over ten years, and I tell the doctor that. What she doesn’t know is that I’m very nervous. The last time I was at a dentist, I was 15 and the doctor didn’t put in any anesthesia and drilled into my tooth. It was excruciating and I was crying a lot, and he didn’t seem to care. In fact, he seemed used to crying in his office. Anyway, I decide to bite the bullet and go for a checkup with a woman doctor, hoping she’ll be more sensitive. She finds three cavities, much to my dismay. She actually uses novocaine, and my gum is all properly numbed. However, I suffer from anxiety, so when she’s drilling my tooth, I can’t help but picture her slipping and drilling into my TONGUE, instead. This gives my tongue a mind of its own. It starts trying to escape, wiggling all about, trying to pull itself free and out! I can feel it moving, but the harder I try to stop it — since I don’t want to weird her out — the more it tries. Finally, she stops.)
Doctor: “You don’t have to wiggle your tongue around that much you know. Just try to keep it still.”
Me: “Sorry. I’ll try.”
(And I did, but I could still feel it moving. Finally, she was done and I zipped out of there to pay. I could tell she was relieved, too, and probably told her husband about my crazy tongue!)
(I work in a childcare centre. Every ten minutes we have to check on the sleeping children in the nursery to make sure they are still alive and breathing. A coworker who is quiet, sweet, and very unsure of herself does the check and comes out of one of the cot rooms to say:)
Coworker: “[Child] has thrown up a little.”
Me: “Oh, okay. Do you want to clean it up, or do the washing up I was about to do and let me clean it up?”
Coworker: “Ah, I’d like to do the washing up if you don’t mind.”
Me: “Sure thing.”
(I go grab what I will need –gloves, washcloths, bag for clothes, etc. — and walk into the room. The child has projectile vomited in her sleep; it is EVERYWHERE and the child is still asleep. The sheets need to be thrown out, the cot has to be disinfected, and the child needs a bath — it is in her hair and in her socks. I walk up to that coworker later.)
Me: “Um, [Coworker]…”
Coworker: “Yes?”
Me: “You led me down a bit of a fantasy there by saying it was a little bit of vomit.”
(She and the other coworkers in the staff room lost it with laughter.)
