(I go to the doctor due to being on my period for five weeks. The conversation is fairly routine; he asks if I’ve changed my diet and about what my period is normally like — he seems a bit freaked out when I say it is normally only two weeks — but overall it seems to be going well. He then asks if I could be pregnant.)

Me: “I can very safely say I’m not pregnant.”

Doctor: “Oh? What contraception are you using?”

Me: “Asexuality.”

(Normally when I say that, the doctor just nods and continues with questions, or asks if I want to consider long-term birth control “as a precaution,” but otherwise just drops the subject. This guy lost it, ranting about proper birth control and about how I, a 25-year-old woman, “should know better by now.” No, I don’t know what he meant by that. I let him rant for a few minutes, and when he finally calmed down, I said, “It means I’m a virgin.” He blinked, apologised quietly, and gave me some pills for the actual reason I was there. I left after making a note of his name so I could make a complaint.)

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

(My cousin is sitting in the reception area, waiting for his appointment with the doctor, when a gentleman who is also waiting suddenly has a heart attack. The receptionist screams for help, all the doctors come running, and while they are busy administering CPR, the receptionist calls for an ambulance. The receptionist then prepares to go outside, to guide the paramedics to the right location when they arrive. My cousin, along with all the other patients in the waiting area, keep out of the way to allow the doctors to work on the gentleman… all except one patient, who arrived in the midst of all the chaos, hasn’t registered what is going on — or simply doesn’t care — and is therefore standing at the reception desk, huffing in indignation.)

Patient: “Well, really! Where do you think you’re going? I have an appointment! And I’m in a hurry, so I expect to be seen on time.”

Receptionist: *looks pointedly down at the floor, where the doctors were still administering CPR* “Well, I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m afraid all the doctors are a bit busy right now, TRYING TO SAVE THIS GENTLEMAN’S LIFE!”

(One evening, as I am working, I end up standing up and smacking my head against a shelf, leading to a head wound that starts bleeding rather profusely. I clean up a bit and get an old rag to hold over the injury. My manager gets one of my co-workers to drive me over to the ER to get checked out. We arrive, and start to get checked in, when an old man speaks up behind me.)

Old Man: “F****** kid, bumped his head and trying to get attention. Go home, you p****! There are people that actually need to be here!”

(I turned, because I was not quite sure if he was talking to me, revealing the side of my face that had a few streaks of blood down it that I hadn’t managed to clean up. Right as I turned, a new line of blood leaked out and rolled down the side of my face, as well. The old man jumped and actually half-slid out of his seat, before standing up and scurrying over to a chair across the waiting area from where I was. I got checked in, and they confirmed that it was just a typical head wound, no concussion or internal bleeding. As I left, I spotted the old man being let in, and he turned away, beet red. Maybe he’ll learn to not be so quick to judge.)

(I broke my leg and have just been loaded into the ambulance. The paramedic gives me some morphine. I get a little silly once the drugs kick in.)

Me: *to paramedic* “Oh, you smell so goooooood.”

(Once I get to the hospital, they temporarily sedate me to set my leg. I wake up as they are wrapping my leg in gauze. My leg is puffy and white.)

Me: “Hashtag marshmallow!”

(I just got into a pretty bad car crash. I refuse medical assistance because, well, that’s expensive. I call my boyfriend to help me, and he brings his buddy who always brags about being an ex-Marine medic. In my shock, I keep insisting we go to the home of a friend whose cats I am taking care of, saying that we can’t let them starve. We get there. I’m bleeding everywhere, my face is swelling, and my hand is turning blue for some reason.)

Boyfriend: “I’ll feed the cats. You just sit down. Wait. You need ice. I’ll get ice!”

Buddy: “You need to clean out these cuts. Does your friend have rubbing alcohol?”

Me: “I don’t know. She’s got three bathrooms in this place. Look around.”

(They run around like headless chickens for a minute.)

Buddy: “I don’t see any.”

Me: “There is a store up the road.”

(He disappears and comes back five minutes later, holding a vodka bottle.)

Buddy: “They didn’t have rubbing alcohol. I got this!”

Me: “Where did you go?”

Buddy: “The gas station.”

Me: “And you didn’t notice the drug store on the other corner?! Give me that.” *I take a big swig straight from the bottle* “It will do, but I’m never calling you for rescue again.”

Boyfriend: “What about me?”

Me: “Are the cats fed?”

Boyfriend: “Yes.”

Me: “I’ll call you; just don’t bring him with.”

(And yes, I did clean out my wounds with vodka, because the buddy didn’t want to go out again, and my boyfriend was afraid I would get up the in-shock energy to kill said buddy if we were left alone together. Good times.)