I have been having menstrual problems for my entire life, which is later discovered to be a cyst on my ovary. About four years before it was discovered, though, I would bleed constantly. It was never fresh blood, though; it was old and black. I would go months without a period, and then months with one.

A doctor sent me to a gynecologist to make sure it wasn’t cancer causing my problems, as I have a family history for various kinds. I was 26, but I took my mom with me for support. The female gynecologist sent my mom out of the room to ask me medical questions, one of which was if I was sexually active.

I told her I wasn’t, because I hadn’t had sex. I’m used to people acting like they don’t believe me, so when she gave me this look, I just nodded to confirm that I was telling the truth. A few questions later, she asked if I had done any “self-stimulation” that may have resulted in a scratch or a tear that would explain the bleeding.

I told her no, because there was always too much blood and it grossed me out. She became exasperated and yelled, “YOU HAVE TO BE HONEST WITH ME!” in a very hostile voice.

I was angry, but I wanted to get this over with, so I just accepted it. Mom came back in and sat in the room on the other side of a curtain, so she couldn’t see any of what happened next.

This doctor was going out of her way to be rough in her examination. I was very sure it shouldn’t be as painful as it was. At one point, she used what she called a probe to hold me open and use a light for a better view, which I felt was fair, but it opened me very wide to the point of near pain. When I hissed and told her it was very uncomfortable, she looked at me like I was an idiot and told me, “You need to calm down. It’s smaller than a man’s penis.”

Now I was offended and angry, but I didn’t want to yell at this woman and upset my mom by “being rude,” since she couldn’t see what was going on. I tried to ignore it, and after another minute or so, I felt the need to fart.

I waited to see if she’d move away for something, but she didn’t. Before I could tell her, though, she realized I was tensing up but not why, and she leaned in to me and, in a very aggressive whisper, said, “If you do not relax right now, I will end this exam and make you come back, and I don’t think you want that.”

So, I nodded and said, “Okay. I’ll relax.”

When she turned away and came back to continue her examination, I finally relaxed and just let it go right in her face. My mom heard and yelled at me for it, and I just told her, “No, no. She was turned away; it’s fine.”

The doctor said nothing about it, but the exam concluded quickly and with no pain, like someone had flipped a switch on the whole thing. I later found out, while telling another female friend about this incident, that this particular gynecologist was known for being horrible to patients, and she thanked me for doing what she wished she had.

(I’ve suffered from chronic pain for ten years now. I’m on opioid medications and have been for five years. I have to go to my doctor every month for the prescriptions since they’re strictly controlled. One visit, I get a new nurse. She sees my reason for the visit but apparently ignores my medical history.)

Nurse: “So, you’re after a refill for [current medication]?”

Me: “Yeah, I need to get a refill before I go out of town next week.”

Nurse: “You know that’s an opioid, right?”

Me: “I’d hope so; I’ve been on it for years now.”

(She looks at my weight on my vitals. Because of my condition, I’m on the lighter side.)

Nurse: “Well, I’m telling the doctor not to. You’re obviously an addict.”

Me: “What?!”

Nurse: “You’re just on it for the high! Whoever started you on it is an idiot!”

Me: “[Doctor] put me on it!”

Nurse: “Well, I’m taking you off of it! It’s for your own good!”

(She storms out. I’m in too much shock to say or do much of anything. A few minutes later, my doctor comes in.)

Doctor: “So, the nurse suggested I cut you off of [medication].”

Me: “Yeah, she yelled at me and called me an addict.”

Doctor: “I told her that unless she knew a way to fix [condition], you were staying on it. She said you didn’t look like you had anything, but we’re going to talk to her about jumping to conclusions. So, usual pharmacy?”

(While I’ve seen her at that practice since, I’ve never had to deal with her again.)

(I work as a dental assistant. After doing some fillings for a patient, I walk her out to the front desk and she stops in the bathroom first. I notice our receptionist is busy with a call, and the dentist doesn’t have another patient for about 15 minutes, so I decide I’ll help out at the front desk and see the last patient out. She comes out of the bathroom and we have this conversation at the desk.)

Patient: “The dentist put a black filling in my mouth!”

Me: “I’m sorry, but there isn’t any such thing as a black filling. I can assure you [Doctor] only placed white composite fillings that match your tooth shade.”

Patient: “It’s right here! It’s black!” *points to a tooth on the opposite side from what we worked on*

Me: “Ma’am, [Doctor] placed fillings on the other side of your mouth. He didn’t touch the tooth you’re pointing to. What your pointing to is a silver amalgam filling that has aged and is no longer shiny, causing it to appear almost black.”

Patient: “No. This was not here before!”

Me: “Ma’am, where is your mouth frozen?”

Patient: *points to the side opposite of tooth she is complaining about*

Me: “That’s the side [Doctor] worked on, not the tooth you notice the dark spot on.”

Patient: “No, he did both. Go check with him or the nurse that was working with him.”

Me: “I am the assistant that was working with him. I’m just helping our receptionist, as she was busy with a call when you first came to the desk, and I can assure you that we did not work on that tooth or that side of your mouth. That is an old silver filling. If it bothers you, we can have the dentist look at it and see if he can replace it, but we’ll need to book you another appointment for that.”

Patient: “No, it’s fine.” *pays and leaves*

Receptionist: “I’m so glad that happened to you and not me.”

(My father happens to be totally blind, and he and his rabbi are visiting my mother in the hospital where she is being treated for cancer. Besides being blind, my father is able-bodied. The rabbi walks with a very defined limp.)

Father: “Thank you for driving me here, Rabbi. I just wanted to warn you that the nurses here must think people walk and hear with their eyes. They’re going to offer me a wheelchair, and they’ll address any questions to you.”

Rabbi: “What? I’m sure they won’t.”

Father: “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

(The rabbi and my father walk into the hospital and go to sign in as visitors. Immediately…)

Nurse: “Wait here while I call someone to bring a wheelchair.”

Rabbi: “It’s okay; I can manage the elevator without it.”

Nurse: “What? Oh, no, it’s not for you. It’s for him.”

Father: “I don’t need a wheelchair, really.”

Nurse: *to the rabbi* “Are you sure he’ll be okay without it?”

Rabbi: *to my father, after they manage to turn down the wheelchair and head for the elevator* “You were right!”

(I am in middle school and have been home sick for the past couple days with a bad sore throat and high fever. On the third day, my throat is still so sore I can’t speak or swallow anything and I am still exhausted, so at breakfast, I try to tell my grandparents, whom I live with, that I don’t think I can go to school. This does not go over well. Note, my grandfather is a licensed family physician and has successfully run his own practice for the past forty years.)

Grandfather: “Your glands aren’t swollen and you don’t feel that warm. It’s normal for a sore throat to linger. You’ve missed enough school; you can’t miss anymore. You’ll be fine.”

(My grandmother defers to his “diagnosis” and drives me to school, even though I haven’t eaten anything because swallowing is agony. I get there early and hang out in the school entryway waiting for the homeroom bell. I am just miserable. I’m achy and exhausted, and my throat hurts so much it’s making me cry. The school nurse walks by and notices the tears.)

Nurse: “[My Name], what’s wrong?”

(I try to tell her my throat hurts, but nothing comes out. She ushers me into her office.)

Nurse: “Well, let’s start with taking a temperature, okay? Just hold on a minute.”

(She puts the thermometer in my ear and waits for it to beep. After she reads it, there’s a beat of silence.)

Nurse: “Wow. [My Name], you can’t be here. I’m going to have to call your parents.”

(It turned out I had a 103-degree fever. Less than ten minutes after she dropped me off, my grandmother got a phone call from the nurse to come and pick me up. I didn’t even make it to homeroom. So much for not feeling “that warm”! Thankfully, my grandfather has a sense of humor, because I have never let him live that one down.)