(After a couple of years of not being able to go to counseling for my various issues, I am trying out a new practice with my new insurance. This occurs during the initial interview with the physician’s assistant who is supposed to help me choose a counselor.)

Me: “And I sometimes feel like, whatever decision I make will be the wrong one, just because I made it…”

Physician’s Assistant: *without looking up from her notes* “Oh, don’t feel like that.”

Me: “Um, I’m sorry?”

Physician’s Assistant: “You shouldn’t feel like that. It’s not helpful.” *finally looking up at me* “So, what were you saying?”

(That was the last time I went to that office. I have to wonder how many years of schooling this woman had under her belt, and still somehow thought it was a brilliant idea to tell someone with severe depression and anxiety that all their problems would be solved if they just “don’t feel like that”!)

(One summer, I tutor a kid in my neighborhood because he failed his freshman English course and needs to retake it as summer school. One day while we are working, my brother, who is working on his RN at the time, comes downstairs in his scrubs and heads to work. Once he leaves, the kid I am tutoring asks about my brother.)

Me: “Yeah, my brother is studying to be a nurse.”

Kid: “You mean a doctor?”

Me: “No, a nurse.”

Kid: “Wait, men can be nurses?”

(This kid was 14 and genuinely had no idea that men could be nurses. He thought men were doctors and women were nurses. I don’t know if he thought those were just gendered terms for the same profession, or if he genuinely thought that no man would ever stoop to being a nurse, but I found that a little worrying, as did my brother when I told him.)

(After I get back from my vacation, I get a bad UTI infection and need antibiotics from my General Practitioner. I am prescribed a course and everything is good until the evening. My entire body randomly breaks out in spots — big, red, blotchy patches. It feels like ants are crawling over my entire body. At around three am, I go to the urgent care centre and the out-of-hours GP calls me through.)

Me: “I have this rash. It hurts so much. It started after I started taking the penicillin this morning. I’ve never been allergic before but my mum and grandma are—“

GP: “I’ll stop you there. This is clearly eczema.”

Me: “I don’t think so. My chest really hurts, too.”

GP: “Definitely eczema. There isn’t much I can do.”

Me: “I don’t think it’s eczema. It’s come on really suddenly.”

(I’m struggling to breathe and the rash has spread up my neck and throat.)

GP: “Stop being a baby! My niece has diabetes and she’s never moaned as much as you have right now!”

(I excuse myself and stumble back to the waiting room. My mum is there and manages to catch me as I collapse on the floor. She calls for an ambulance and the doctor comes back out.)

GP: “You can’t sleep here!”

Mum: “She can’t breathe, you idiot!”

(The ambulance came and I was given an adrenaline shot and rushed into the main section of the hospital. I was right. It was anaphylaxis. I was having an allergic reaction to penicillin.)

(I am 19, and I go in for my annual checkup at the doctor. I am given a standard medical questionnaire to fill in. One of the questions is, “On average, how many units of alcohol do you drink a week?” I have never been a big drinker, not even as a teen. Not for any particular reason; it just isn’t my thing. At most, I have a few drinks on New Years and a few on my birthday. I write on the form that I have a couple of units a week, which would average out to the few drinks on my birthday and New Years with plenty of wiggle room to spare, just in case. I hand the form in, and it is sent to the doctor. Eventually, he calls me in. We do my height and weight and blood pressure. All good. Then he comes to my alcohol intake and narrows his eyes at me.)

Doctor: “You can be truthful, you know. I’m a medical professional.”

Me: “I know. I am being honest. I’m not a big drinker.”

(He stares at me for a while.)

Doctor: “I was young once. And I have teenage kids. I’m not going to judge you. Be honest.”

Me: “I am being honest. I’m not a drinker.”

Doctor: *condescendingly* “What do you do when you go clubbing? Drink water?”

(Taken aback, I shake my head. I don’t go clubbing; nightclubs are my idea of Hell. I have a full-time job, often working fifty or more hours, and I have no interest in going to loud clubs or bars on my days off.)

Me: “I don’t go out much. I’d rather go out for coffee than go clubbing.”

(The doctor raises his eyebrows.)

Doctor: “Okay, well, I’m going to put you down for ten units a week.”

(He picks up his pen and actually crosses out what I wrote.)

Me: “No! What I wrote was true. I don’t drink. Even a few units a week is generous. I don’t want you to change what I wrote.”

Doctor: “Look, just be honest. If you’re not, we can’t treat you.”

Me: “I am being honest. I don’t give you permission to change it.”

Doctor: “Well, I’m the doctor, and I have reason to believe you are being dishonest. You need to stop lying on medical forms. That’s a big deal. If you keep lying on them, you could die because we don’t have the right information.”

(I keep trying to argue with him but he writes over what I wrote and puts down ten units a week. Dumbfounded and unsure of what to do, I carry on with the rest of the exam, just wanting it to be over. As soon as I am out, I go straight to reception and tell them I want to make a complaint. At first, the receptionist is alarmed and asks what the problem is. When I tell her, she pauses and then rolls her eyes.)

Receptionist: “Look, sweetie, we won’t tell your parents. Everything you tell us is confidential.”

Me: “I live by myself. That’s not my issue. The doctor falsified my medical records without my permission.”

Receptionist: “Your medical records need to be accurate, sweetie. Otherwise, we can’t treat you.”

(The receptionist refuses to log my complaint. When I continue to insist, she looks down her nose at me.)

Receptionist: “For somebody who doesn’t drink, you sure are protesting a lot.”

(I wanted to scream at her that I was angry because they were DELIBERATELY FALSIFYING my medical records, but instead, I left and transferred to another practice.)

(I used to work for a medical insurance company. I answered phone calls and emails from customers who had questions about their insurance policy or reimbursements. In this case, the customer had a coverage of 80%, meaning that he had to pay for 20% of the amount himself. The following is an exchange over email.)

Customer: “I saw that 80% of my invoice was paid, but what do I have to do about the remaining balance?”

Me: “The coverage for this type of expense is 80%. This means that we have paid for 80% of your expenses to the hospital directly. The other 20% should be paid by you, yourself.”

Customer: “I don’t understand. What do I have to do?”

Me: “Since the coverage is not at 100%, this means that we cannot pay for 100%. We have paid our share to the hospital. The remaining balance of [amount] should be paid to the hospital by you, yourself. If you have already paid this to the hospital, everything is fine and no further action is required. If you want, you can give me a phone call or provide me with your phone number, so I can give you a call, so I can explain this to you by phone.”

Customer: “I really don’t understand. What do you want me to do?”

(He has given me no phone number and no other option than to send another email.)

Me: “The amount of [amount] has to be paid to the hospital by you, yourself. If you have already paid [amount] to the hospital, you should do nothing. If you have not yet paid [amount] to the hospital, you need to pay [amount] to the hospital. If you are unsure whether you have paid or not, please contact the hospital’s billing department.”

Customer: “I am [Customer]’s manager and I have been over these emails with him. We both do not understand what he needs to do.”

(Again, I was given no phone number. At that point, I decided to break the rules and put the email back in the general mailbox instead of my personal one to let someone else deal with it. The worst part is that these people work for the United Nations.)