(I’m getting my teeth cleaned when the dental hygienist strikes up the following conversation.)
Hygienist: “How was your weekend?”
Me: “Well, I had to work Saturday, but Sunday was okay.”
Hygienist: “Do you always work six-day weeks?”
Me: “I work every other Saturday.”
Hygienist: “What do you do?”
Me: “I do pest control.”
Hygienist: “Ooh! I couldn’t do that! That’s just… yuck!”
Me: “Well, you stick your fingers in other people’s’ mouths all day.”
Hygienist: “Oh. Yeah.”
(I am at the dentist’s for a general cleaning, with a hygienist I haven’t been with before. Things are going normally until this happens.)
Hygienist: “Oh, wow. Wow. This is really unusual.”
Me: “Is… Is something wrong?”
Hygienist: “Let me get the dentist. I have never seen this before.”
(By now, I am panicking in the chair a little. The hygienist leaves, then comes back with the dentist, and they both look into my mouth.)
Hygienist: “Look at her uvula. Isn’t it a weird shape? I’ve never seen that before.”
Dentist: “It just has a bit of an indent in the middle.”
Hygienist: “Her uvula looks so weird. I’ve never seen that before.”
Dentist: “All right, [Hygienist], you can go now. I can finish up this cleaning.”
(The dentist told me it was nothing to worry about and barely noticeable, then finished the cleaning without issue. No dentist or hygienist had ever told me I had a weird uvula before.)
(My military career has me outdoors most of the time, usually in very hot and sunny places. Several years later, I develop a rough patch on my face and am referred to a specialist who listens to my history and diagnoses a precancerous lesion. He recommends that it be removed right away, during this visit, and I agree. He leaves the exam room, and I overhear him giving instructions to the nurse.)
Nurse: “So, what kind of local do you want for her?”
Doctor: “We can do this without it.”
Nurse: “Without anesthetic? Are you sure?”
Doctor: “She was a Marine. She can take it.”
(Gee, thanks, Doc!)
(My younger sister and brother are due to get their polio vaccinations. Despite being two years younger than her, my brother is several inches taller and 40 pounds heavier than our sister. But, as she’s older, she gets to go first.)
Mom: “She has a fear of shots, just to warn you.”
Nurse: “Oh, that’s no problem. I know nobody likes shots.” *turns to my sister* “Now, I’m just going to clean the skin on your leg for the shot.”
Sister: “It’s cold!”
Nurse: “Yes, it is. But it will warm up again in a minute. Now, you’re just going to feel a pinch…”
(My sister sees the needle and flips out, screaming, crying, and flailing. She even manages to kick the nurse in the face before my mom is able to hold her down.)
Nurse: *finally gets the shot in* “I’m sorry, sweetie. I know that hurt. I promise, if you relax, shots don’t hurt so much. Would you like a sucker?”
(My sister won’t stop crying; she’s in full panic mode.)
Me: “Mom, if you want, I can take [Brother] to another room and help him get his shot.”
Mom: *still trying to control my sister* “Please, do.”
(I gather up my hefty little brother and follow the nurse to the exam room next door.)
Nurse: “Go ahead and put him on the table, please.”
Me: “Sure thing. Here you go, buddy! You doing okay?”
Brother: “Yeah.” *with the implication of “why shouldn’t I be?”*
(The nurse looks him over, and then leaves without a word. A few minutes later, she comes back in with not one, but three orderlies, all strong-looking men, to hold my brother down. One orderly stands behind him and holds his arms around my brother’s arms and torso, while the other two each secure a leg.)
Me: “He’s not going to go crazy like [Sister] did. He’s our gentle giant, I swear.”
(The nurse ignores me, cleans his leg, and then counts to three for his shot.)
Brother: *frowns* “Ow.”
Nurse: *stunned* “Ow?”
Brother: “That hurt. Can I have a sucker, now?”
(He didn’t so much as twitch, and he accepted his treat with a smile. [Sister] was still crying a river, and didn’t stop until we were halfway home.)
(I have a psychologist assigned to me at my hospital, where I am a frequent visitor and inpatient due to a chronic illness. She’s not very good at her job, at least when it comes to me; every conversation I have with her ends in frustration for me, and a completely warped assessment of my emotional and mental state for my doctor. Eventually, I get tired of it, and ask not to see her anymore, since I think she misunderstands and/or misrepresents my mental health. This is the last conversation I have with her, during a week-long hospitalisation.)
Me: “I’m sorry, but considering that I asked you not to come today, and you came anyway, and once again you haven’t really understood what I’m saying, I’m going to ask the doctors not to send you to me anymore.
Psychologist: “Oh… Well, I still have one more visit planned for the day before you leave.”
Me: “Please cancel it. I appreciate your help, but I just become too frustrated.”
Psychologist: “Well… if you change your mind, please let–
Me: “I’m not going to change my mind.”
Psychologist: “Well, if you do, just tell one of the day nurses and—”
Me: “I’m sorry, but I’m not going to.”
Psychologist: “Well, just in case you do—”
Me: “I’m not.”
Psychologist: “I know you think that now, but I’ll be here if you want to chat.”
Me: “I promise you, I won’t.”
Psychologist: “Well, if you change your mind…”
(Then, she just stood there smiling. I stared at her in disbelief until she left.)
