I’m a German med student. When I did one of my mandatory internships at the hospital, I used to help out at the emergency room after-hours from time to time because they were understaffed and were happy to have another helping hand. It was flu season and the hospital was packed.

It was a particularly busy day because there had been two major and several minor car accidents (icy roads); ambulances were waiting in line for forty-five minutes or more. We didn’t have any chairs left in the waiting room — chairs from the staff’s rooms included. All stretchers and beds were occupied, and some had to be placed in the corridor. Everybody was running trying to keep up with the workload.

This very hysterical mom brought her teenage daughter to the ER because she had a bellyache. Of course, I couldn’t tell for sure, but it seemed like the daughter was a bit overdramatic; the whole thing seemed a tad theatrical. But fair enough, they were placed into one of the cabins. The daughter was thoroughly examined, vitals were checked, an ultrasound was done, and blood was drawn. Mother Bear was pacing up and down the cabin in hysterics.

The good news came in: the daughter had an upset stomach at worst. She was recommended a heating pad and some tea. We expected the duo to be relieved, but they seemed a tad disappointed. But okay, whatever.

The attending nurse and I looked at them, expecting them to leave the desperately needed cabin and the obviously overflowing ER. When it became increasingly obvious that both were not planning to do so anytime soon, the nurse politely asked them to leave. The mother glared at us in shock.

Mother: “Um, excuse me?! My daughter needs to rest! Let her sleep here; she should be observed by professionals. She’s fragile, you know?!”

I could tell that it took the nurse a lot not to start screaming or crying or both.

Nurse: *Calmly* “We need the cabin because we have to care for a lot of very sick patients that are still waiting. Some of them are visibly in pain.”

Mother: “My daughter is sick! All these procedures were very exhausting for her. She needs rest! She needs this bed! Let her sleep, for God’s sake!”

The mother started a monologue about why her oh-so-sick daughter DESERVED the bed and needed to stay.

We then decided to get the head nurse and a doctor — they most definitely had better things to do than listening to Mother Bear’s complaints — who threw them out politely but with emphasis.

Cue a lot of tired head-shaking among staff members.

I am a person who very rarely questions the decisions of doctors. I haven’t ever gone seeking a third or fourth opinion. One day, I’m at home watching a show, and I scratch my leg. I feel something a little strange. It looks like I have the beginning of an ingrown hair. I try to remove it, but it hurts too much. I decide to wait.

Over the course of four years, it grows into a lump. It isn’t very big — maybe the size of a pea. I ask a doctor about it and she says she thinks it’s a cyst. She tells me to just wait or to bang a book on it to pop it. I try and nothing happens.

It doesn’t grow any larger, but over time, it starts to hurt — like someone is jamming a large needle in there. I go back to the doctor and explain the pain. They send me to a dermatologist.

I have since talked to others who went to this same dermatologist, and we all agree: he’s cute but not too bright.

I tell him about the pain and show him my leg.

Doctor: “Well, we can cut it out, but it’s going to leave a really ugly scar. And it’s just a cyst.”

And with him repeating that over and over, I end up waiting another year.

Finally, the pain is getting so bad that I can’t sleep at night. If anything even lightly touches it, I have intense pain. I go back in.

Doctor: “Well, I can remove it, but it’ll leave a scar.”

Me: “I don’t care. It hurts.”

Doctor: “It’ll be a nasty scar.”

Me: “It hurts.”

Doctor: “But I mean, it’ll be a really nasty scar!”

Me: “[Doctor], I don’t care! It hurts so much that I can’t sleep anymore! Besides, I only wear long pants, and the only other person who would see my leg would be my boyfriend, and he said he doesn’t care how it looks! I just want it to stop hurting!”

So, he finally cut it out, and I have been pain-free for two years now.

What I didn’t know at the time was that when they cut something out of you, like that little lump, they automatically send it off to pathology to test it. I ended up getting an email a few days later saying that it was a good thing they had removed it. Though it was benign, it was a rare tumor called an angioleiomyoma, which can grow on the nerves and cause extreme pain.

When I was born, my dad had the opportunity to give me a bath. I don’t know if it was my first or one of my first, but he was thrilled. He started washing me in the little tub they filled with warm water, being very gentle, when a nurse comes up behind him. 

Nurse: “No, no! You’re doing it all wrong!”

Dad: “Oh, shoot. How do I do it?”

She proceeded to elbow him aside and start washing me VERY aggressively. She was washing like she was scrubbing the bottom of a dirty pan.

Nurse: “See, like this!” 

She then set me back in his hands and walked away. He was a bit confused and went back to washing me, but he couldn’t bring himself to be that rough with his newborn child.

The nurse came by again, chastised him again, and washed me again. She gave me back, walked away, and didn’t come back.

I can’t imagine having the audacity to be annoyed with a new father for not wanting to give his newborn baby a noogie.

I receive a call from my doctor’s office.

Receptionist: “Just so you know, your insurance is no longer active.”

Me: *Slightly panicked* “Are you sure? It should still be active.”

Receptionist: “We have you in the system as being with both [Insurance Company #1] and [Insurance Company #2], so I tried billing [Insurance Company #1] and they denied it.”

Me: *Pauses* “[Insurance Company #1] was my parent’s insurance. I haven’t been under them for years.”

Receptionist: “Ohhhhh, so should I try billing [Insurance Company #2], then?”

Me: *Facepalming internally* “Yes.”

CONTENT WARNING: Dental Work, Needles

When I was thirteen or fourteen, I went to the dentist and ended up needing a cavity filled. I am NOT good with needles, so when he gave me the shot to numb me, I was struggling to stay calm. I also have an extremely small mouth, so some dentists get very frustrated.

When the first shot was in, I kind of went numb, but when he started drilling, I could feel everything. I was making noise to get him to stop, and he decided to do another shot to numb it more. Nope, I could still feel everything, even though my tongue and lips were numb.

Both shots hurt like crazy, so when he tried to go in with a third shot, I couldn’t stand it. I started yelling no and yelling not to touch me. I was in a full-on panic attack, hyperventilating and crying.

The dentist went and got my mom, and she couldn’t calm me down, either. So, what did she do?

She slapped me!

It shocked the h*** out of me, but it surprised me so much that it broke me out of the panic attack. The cavity did get filled with the help of some gas.

When we were leaving, I looked at my mom.

Me: “I can believe you slapped me!”

Mom: “Well, it works in the movies!”

I just laughed at the absurdity of it, but it worked!