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No Re Mi!

, , , , , , | Healthy | September 17, 2018

A few years ago, I was having some issues with irregular periods and had to have my first pelvic exam. It was something I had avoided for a long time, because even the idea of it put me in a panic. My mom suggested I go to her gynecologist, and I agreed, largely because she was a woman and I refused to do it with a male doctor.

So, the day of the appointment finally came and I was a nervous wreck over it, actually nearly throwing up at times. But I went and met with a nurse first, and she put me a tiny bit more at ease.

But not for long. I was taken into the exam room and handed a “gown” to change into. I was told to have it open in the front, but it didn’t even come close to fitting me, so I was practically naked. If I pulled it as tight as I could around me, there were still at least six inches of skin uncovered across my chest, stomach, and lap. Then, the doctor didn’t come in for over half an hour, and at that point I was crying out of anxiety. When she finally came in, she asked if a student shadowing her could sit in, and I’m glad now I said yes.

The doctor began by rather aggressively checking my breasts while she started singing the opening lines to the song Do-Re-Mi from The Sound of Music, “Let’s start at the very beginning, a very good place to start.” She explained by telling me she had a two-year-old grandson who could only be calmed down by The Sound of Music when he was worked up, and she thought maybe it would help me, too. I was speechless.

I’m not sure why she thought it was a good idea to compare a grown woman having an anxiety attack to a tantrum-throwing toddler, but I’m still offended. The rest of the exam was relatively uneventful, with the student talking to me and holding my hand through much of it. I’ve promised myself that I will not let this experience scare me away from potentially necessary medical care in the future. But The Sound of Music is completely ruined for me forever.

Looks Like Stupidity Is On The Menu Tonight

, , , , | Right | September 10, 2018

(The restaurant I work at sends out dishes as they’re ready instead of coursing out the food. As a result, a lot of plates are taken to tables by staff members other than the server for that particular table. This happens right after I’ve dropped off a plate and explained it fairly thoroughly.)

Customer: “How do I know if I ordered this?”

Ankle-Deep In Misdiagnoses

, , , , , , | Healthy | August 29, 2018

I am going down the steps from my porch and misstep, and end up breaking my leg in three places right near my ankle. It is a Friday night, so I can’t get an appointment with the orthopedic surgeon until Monday.

When I go in for my appointment, I first see a nurse assistant with a very unique name. We talk about how it happened and my medical history. And because I’m female, she asks when my last period was. It has been almost a year. I’m on continuous birth control, despite not being sexually active, because during that time of the month, my migraines and fibromyalgia get to the point where I can’t function. She then goes to get the doctor, and from the room she has taken us to, we hear an argument break out over “who cancelled the appointment of the broken ankle girl.” I still don’t see how that’s possible, considering we made that appointment only an hour earlier. I end up being seen by another doctor with more of a specialty in what I need, so it works out and I forget about the weirdness.

Fast forward a week to when I can finally have surgery. I’m in the hospital gown, have an IV in, and I’m being asked the same questions again and again: spell my name, what’s my birth date, etc. Finally the nurse looks at me funny and looks at my ankle splint — which has a ton of padding and is massive — and tells me, “I know it seems obvious, but I need you to tell me what you’re here for.” I tell her to fix my ankle. She nods and tells me that that nurse assistant — I remember her unique name — had put me down as coming in for a hysterectomy. I’m not sure if she was trying to — inaccurately — note in my file that I’d had one because I hadn’t had my period in a year, or somehow managed to screw up why I was seeing an orthopedic surgeon when I had three broken bones. But I guess that will forever be a mystery.

I Scanned You As A Regular

, , , , | Right | July 27, 2018

(I am the customer in this story. I’m at a location of a self-serve, self-assembled furniture store. I’m purchasing some bookshelves and a lamp, and I’ve noticed signs all through the store asking customers to place their items on their trolley with the barcodes facing forward, so I do so. I get up to the cashier.)

Cashier: *jumps up, quickly scans everything I have* “Wow, you must shop here a lot!”

Me: *puzzled, handing over my card* “No, not really; this is only my second time here.”

Cashier: *processing my payment* “Well, you have everything arranged with the barcodes in front, so it’s easy to scan. Usually only the frequent shoppers do that.”

Me: “Well, I saw the signs all over the store, and it seemed like a sensible thing to do, so I did it.”

Cashier: *handing me my receipt with a huge smile* “THE POWER OF READING!”

(We high-fived as I trundled off, grinning myself.)

This Hotel Has Much Room For Improvement

, , , , , , , | Working | July 5, 2018

It’s my last night in a hotel in Baltimore, and I’ll be getting up early the next morning to catch a flight, so I go to bed quite early, maybe nine pm. I’m dozing off and I hear some rattling, like someone’s trying to open my door. They can’t do it because they don’t have the right key, and anyway, I’ve put the safety latch on. The noise stops, and I assume they’ve spotted that they have the wrong room, or maybe I just imagined it because I was half asleep.

A few minutes later, however, the door suddenly opens and gets caught on the safety latch, making a huge noise, at which point I scream in terror. There’s a curt apology and they shut the door again.

Terrified, I pick up the room phone and try to dial reception. The phone is clearly broken or not connected, and I’m in too much of a state to work out what is going on. I fling some clothes on over my pyjamas and rush down to reception.

Reception explains that someone misread their room number, thought my room was their room, and tried to get in. When they failed, they found a security guard loitering around who, instead of checking with reception if they had the right key or room number, just decided to use their master key to get into my room.

While they’re explaining this, the culprits — idiot guest and even more idiot security guard — are stood right by me and clearly think it’s hilarious that I’m so upset about this. I’m sure it’s terribly funny to make someone think they were about to be murdered in their bed!

I didn’t get any sleep at all that night because my heart was racing. I did, however, get that night refunded by the hotel, who did accept liability for their receptionist’s poor handwriting and their security guard’s spectacularly bad judgement.