When I am around eight years old in the 1990s, I start to get random tummy aches. They appear out of the blue and often come with diarrhoea. My parents take me to our general physician, who can’t find anything. He sends me to a specialist, who does every test he can think of. They find nothing. Since my health seems in order — growing right, not dehydrated, etc. — the specialist tells my parents to keep a good eye on my weight, etc. “Make sure she eats healthy, like enough whole grains, fruits, veggies, and milk.”

I grow up okay and I seem to get fewer tummy aches when I eat at home. My parents deduce that it might come from fats or spices, things we don’t use that much of at home. I don’t like milk, but I love yoghurt and buttermilk, so my desserts are often those things mixed with fruits. I can drink litres of buttermilk or yoghurt in a day, so my parents are not worried about my calcium.

After my marriage, I come across a site that I wasn’t looking for that lists all my symptoms. I go to my new general physician again. 

Me: “Remember all those tummy aches listed in my file? I was wondering… Could I be lactose intolerant?”

Doctor: “You know you shouldn’t read those sites online. They mention cancer every three lines.” 

Me: “Yes, but the list—”

Doctor: “When do you often have tummy aches?”

Me: “When I go out for dinner.”

Doctor: “And why do you think you are lactose intolerant?”

Me: “Because I always end dinner with ice cream—”

Doctor: “That little does not—”

Me: “With whipped cream. And I love creamy sauces or creamy soups, which I often have at a restaurant, as well.”

Doctor: “Do you also get a tummy ache when you drink milk?”

Me: “No, but that’s because I don’t like milk. I drink buttermilk. And I prefer goat’s cheese, as well.”

Doctor: “Fine, let’s get you tested.”

After a while, I get a call.

Doctor: “Hey, [My Name], I never thought I would say this: the Internet was right. You are lactose intolerant. I can prescribe some pills if you want, but there are a lot of vegan alternatives nowadays. You could look into that if you want.”

So, after about thirty years, I finally found out what’s wrong with me, what specialists then couldn’t find. I have no idea why they didn’t look into that, but they no longer work in the field, anyway. I am absolutely not vegan, but I am glad there are many vegan alternatives available.

For many years, a local doctor was my primary care physician. She was also my pediatrician. I moved out of town a few years ago, but my insulin resistance has gotten worse, so I made the drive back to her because I thought I could trust her with my health. This is how it went.

Doctor: “So, you think you have insulin resistance?”

Me: “Uh, I do have it. It’s because of my PCOS. It was diagnosed a few years back—”

Doctor: “But you’re not on [medication]?

Me: “I thought I wasn’t able to be on any medication for it—”

Doctor: “You’ve been aware of this since seventh grade and you’ve never been on medication?! That’s such a shame; you’ve obviously retained so much weight. You wouldn’t be so overweight if someone had caught this sooner. By the looks of it, your pediatrician should have caught this in elementary school!”

Me: “Um… I was diagnosed here. I was told to just diet, exercise, and manage my PCOS to take care of it.”

Doctor: “Oh, God, it was probably [Other Doctor]. Don’t worry, she’s retired now, so—”

Me: “It was you, actually.”

Doctor: “I never diagnosed you with this. I told you I thought you had it. I didn’t say you actually did.”

I was confused out of my mind.

Me: “Um… Okay, but I do, in fact, have it. I’ve had it for years.” 

An awkward silence fell.

Doctor: “Do you go to the lady doctor? Like a…” *whispers* “…gynecologist?”

Me: “Um, yeah, pretty regularly, for my PCOS.”

Doctor: “Well, she should have prescribed you [medication]! I’ll have to get in contact with her and let her know what she’s done.”

Because it’s totally my OBGYN’s job to treat my insulin resistance. She spent the next few minutes talking about my weight in the most insulting way possible.

Doctor: “It’s so sad you got to be so big!”

Keep in mind, I wear a large. I’m overweight but I’m not exactly the star of “My 600 Pound Life.” She made comments saying she could tell I had insulin resistance by the way I carried all my weight in my “front tire”. Yes, she loved calling my stomach a “front tire”. She pointed out every lump on my body in an “Aw, you poor baby!” kind of way. After all that, she gave me this gem.

Doctor: “Now I need you to go on this diet, but I don’t like calling it a diet! Putting patients on diets can make them feel bad about their bodies!”

Gee, lady, I sure would hate for you to make me self-conscious. Also, she recommended this diet immediately after I told her I was already on the very same diet. I don’t think she believed me.

My little sister and I are maybe six and thirteen, and we’re at an activity centre, thanks to a course that helps kids from disadvantaged families have a slightly more “normal” childhood. Usually, our dad drops us off, we spend the day doing fun stuff we don’t normally get the chance to do, and then he comes to pick us up.

Today, we have been dropped off a little early, and we’re playing tig while waiting for the other kids to arrive. My sister trips over a step and bangs her wrist. There appears to be a small cut, and she has tears in the corners of her eyes. The adults responsible for us ask if they need to call our dad, but I overrule them. I tell them it’s just a small cut; she’s being a crybaby and needs to get over it. She’s not even actually crying, just about to. The adults listen to me, but they really should not.

My dad has always been the kind of person who shouts at me whenever I cry, telling me off for crocodile tears and telling me I’m being ridiculous and such, so I’m projecting this onto my sister. My dad is autistic and the sound of us crying always causes him genuine pain, which means he can’t deal with us properly, but we won’t find this out for many years yet.

At the moment, all I know is that crying equals bad, and she needs to deal with the pain without crying like I have been expected to. Also, my sister has an incredibly high pain tolerance due to years of medical issues, so I should have known that if she’s feeling the pain, then the pain is serious. She can barely join in the activities that day because her wrist hurts so much, and one of the other kids makes her a sling from some of the material we have access to today. I just roll my eyes at this and continue playing as normal because, clearly, she’s being silly, and I’m not going to stop my fun to baby her.

Some hours later, our dad returns to collect us. The adults mention to him that she banged her wrist earlier but that it’s nothing to worry about. He removes her makeshift sling and her wrist is swollen. I don’t really get what he’s all upset about, but he takes us to the hospital to get it looked at, which I’m kind of numb to since we’ve been in them a lot, and I still don’t realise that this is serious. They find that her wrist is broken. 

Looking back at the situation now, I’m horrified that these adults just accepted the word of an autistic preteen girl instead of appropriately dealing with the medical emergency, and I’m disgusted at my own attitude towards my sister’s pain. On the bright side, my sister’s wrist is no longer broken, and she hasn’t needed to be in hospital since before the health crisis, though she will need another appointment soon.

I am on Medicaid for a short time during college. When leaving the doctor’s office, I ask if there’s anything I owe and they tell me no. A few months later, I receive a bill in the mail from the doctor’s office for $3, along with instructions on how to pay it online. When I go online, the site tells me it won’t accept payments under $10, so I call their office.

Me: “I received a $3 bill from your office but it won’t accept the payment online since it’s under $10. Can I pay over the phone?”

Receptionist: “No, we don’t accept payments under $10 over the phone, either.”

Me: “Can I mail you the money, then, or drop it off during off-hours? My work schedule doesn’t work with your hours of operation.”

Receptionist: “No, it has to be in person.”

Me: “You’re only open from 9:00 am to 5:00 pm. I work from 8:00 am to 5:00 pm and only have a thirty-minute break. My workplace is a thirty-minute drive from your office. Are you really giving me no other option than asking for time off to drive an hours’ worth to pay $3?”

Receptionist: *Long pause* “I’ll waive the fee.”

I work for an orthopaedic surgeon and the number of patients who don’t know their medications or allergies is staggering! This patient just called in and we’re concerned about an infection after her surgery.

Me: “The doctor wants to get you on a general antibiotic to be safe. Can you tell me if you have any allergies?”

Patient: “I think I have a few, but I’m not sure. I will give you a call back.”

This isn’t a problem, and the patient calls back to give me a list of five or so allergies. The medication that the doctor wanted to give her is a derivative of one of her allergies, so we need to know what happens.

Me: “Can you tell me what happens when you take that antibiotic, please?” 

Patient: “I can’t recall anything happening. I don’t think I’m even allergic. Let me ask my husband.”

I wait. The patient’s husband says he doesn’t know, so the patient is going to call a friend and get back to me. This is now the third time we’ve gone over this.

Patient: “I think you can go ahead and send that prescription. I don’t think I’m even allergic to it.”

Me: “So, just to be perfectly clear, you really don’t remember what happened the last time you took this medication?”

Patient: “Well, you know, I think the issue was that my throat started to close up.”

Cue me hitting my head on my desk.