(I am in labor at the hospital. My midwife comes in to check how it is going and to feel the baby’s position for delivery. After feeling my belly she says:)

Midwife: “I cannot find the baby.”

Me: “Well, I am pretty sure that he didn’t come out yet, so he must be somewhere inside.”

(I am still a teenager when this happens. I’ve had several bladder infections, which took a while to diagnose because I am a man, “and men never get urine infections.” Luckily my GP and parents take me seriously after the final diagnosis, so if I feel it coming, I pee in a pot, take it to the GP, and he does the test and gives me the antibiotics. A cause has yet to be found. One day I wake up in immense pain. I suspect bladder infection, but I can hardly squeeze anything out. The result also looks different, and I immediately go to the GP with my parents and my little jar. I don’t have to wait for long, and when the GP sees the little jar, he gets ready for the normal tests. Then… he suddenly turns back and takes the jar.)

GP: “Wait… I officially have to test this, but please go to the hospital right away.”

Father: “What is wrong?”

GP: “It’s a bladder infection, I’m positive but…” *he shows the jar, which holds three separate layers of fluids* “This is blood, this is proteins, and this is urine. It’s not supposed to separate… at all. Please leave right away, while I test this.”

(When I reached the hospital, results were in, a bed was made ready, and I spent a week at the hospital with a very severe bladder infection. I still often feel bladder infections coming, but it turns out my body responds really well to cranberry juice, so I haven’t had any need for antibiotics ever since!)

I was diagnosed with Asperger’s when I was fourteen, and I’ve never really seen anything bad about it. I like to make jokes about having it sometimes, too.

Whenever I go to the doctor, I ask if I need any vaccines or shots at the time, and I distinctly remember one of my doctors making a remark on how I’m one of the only people who ask voluntarily. I was fifteen at the time and this doctor works usually with younger patients.

I calmly looked her in the eye and smiled brightly before saying, “I already have autism; what’s the worst that can happen?”

It wasn’t as funny as I thought it was when she assumed I actually thought that vaccines caused autism and started lecturing me.

(My dad is on the phone with me one day while I’m away at college. I’m in my late teens. English is not our first language, and as is the case most of the time with immigrants and their children, I have a much better knowledge of the language. He’s looking for a medical specialist to go to for some issue he has and is reading off a list to have me help him figure out what type of doctors they are.)

Dad: “It says this one is an anesthesiologist. What is that?”

Me: “That’s the doctor who puts you to sleep during surgery.”

Dad: “This one is a dermatologist.”

Me: “That’s a doctor who treats skin conditions.”

Dad: “Okay, this one is a nephrologist.”

Me: “They treat the kidneys.”

Dad: “Hmm…Let’s see… The next one is a Neurology doctor.”

Me: “They treat the brain and nervous system.”

Dad: “Okay… Oh, how about this one? It’s an OB/GYN. What is that?”

Me: “Uh… That’s… really not the right kind of doctor for you, Dad.”

(It’s worth noting here that I have a poor and very awkward relationship with my father, to the point that we’ve essentially not talked about anything personal in my entire life, and NEVER anything to do with sex.)

Dad: *in a curt and impatient tone* “What kind of doctor is it? What does OB/GYN mean?”

Me: *trying very hard not to be forced to say anything that would be extremely awkward for me* “That’s not the kind of doctor you’re looking for, Dad. I’m definitely sure about that.”

Dad: *suddenly snapping at me loudly and quite angrily* “I don’t care what you think! Just tell me what the h*** kind of doctor it is! I want to know what OB/GYN means, right now!”

Me: *startled and insulted* “Um, well, that’s… that’s a doctor who treats babies.”

Dad: *immediately calms down and pretends nothing happened, then goes on with asking about other doctors from the list* “Oh. Well. Okay, the next doctor is a….”

(I was very awkward back then about anything to do with sex, and very easily intimidated and bullied by my parents. Looking back on it now, I really wish I’d answered him with, “Well, Dad, that’s the doctor who treats vaginas and uteruses! You know, the doctor who looks into vaginas and then puts his hands into vaginas, and then puts all sorts of medical implements into vaginas! Vaginas vaginas vaginas vaginas! So, how about it? I guess I could have been totally wrong! Do you think that this could be the doctor you’re looking for – the doctor who treats vaginas?”)

I come into the hospital, 39 weeks pregnant with a single baby, due to a sudden headache, high blood pressure, and vomiting. It’s determined I’ve developed severe preeclampsia and need to be induced today.

Just about three hours after being admitted, the baby has moved for the fourth time, making it difficult to accurately monitor her heart rate. The doctor decides to have a monitor placed in utero on the baby to get a consistent reading.

The nurses tasked with placing the monitor are gathered at my legs, talking amongst themselves, prepping for the procedure. I’m foggy from the medicine and not really paying attention when a nurse says, “Oh, there’s two.” After having a minor panic attack, I catch the nurse’s attention and it turns out they had two of the monitors, but after talking about irregular heartbeats I thought somehow a second baby had shown up.