I was diagnosed with ADD and short-term memory loss when I started college around fifteen years ago. (Better late than never, I guess.) The only accommodation I really needed was a formula sheet for my algebra class to use on tests. There were no answers of any kind on this sheet, just formulas, e.g., a²+b²=c². I still had to do the actual work myself.

Somehow, though, my algebra professor took this to mean that I had a “cheat sheet” and constantly made nasty remarks about it, even trying to get my classmates to agree with him that it wasn’t fair that I had a “cheat sheet” when they didn’t. Thankfully, my classmates all told him he was being ridiculous and making everyone uncomfortable with his snarky comments.

I finally had enough and decided to stay after class to have an adult conversation about the comments being rude, unprofessional, and downright inappropriate, and to ask firmly but politely that they stop. Unfortunately, it’s hard to have an adult conversation when the other person refuses to be an adult. I explained that I needed the formula sheet because I have memory issues, and it in no way provided anything that my classmates didn’t have (since they had the advantage of keeping the formulas in their minds instead of on a sheet). Everything I said was met with more snark and condescension that was, honestly, childish.

Eventually, I realized that the man simply would not be reasoned with, so, irritated and out of patience, I had no choice but to pull out my nuke.

Me: *Frustrated* “Look. We can go back and forth with this as long as you want, but at the end of the day, you can either stop the nasty comments, or you can have a chat about the ADA [Americans with Disabilities Act] with my dad.”

Professor: *Scoffing, condescending tone* “Oh, you’re really going your father involved?”

Me: “Well, he’s your boss.”

And I watched this man’s soul leave his body.

Professor: *Tiny, horrified voice* “…what?”

I stuck out my hand as if to shake his.

Me: “Hi, [My First Name] [MY LAST NAME]. [Dad’s First Name] [OUR LAST NAME], head of the math department’s, youngest daughter.” 

The professor’s eyes went wider.

Professor: “…daughter?”

Suddenly, he didn’t have a problem with my formula sheet. I still mentioned the issue to my dad, who looked into [Professor] and found that he had several complaints against him from students with disabilities. Dad promised to keep an eye on him, and they did indeed have a chat about the ADA and professionalism at the end of the quarter.

[Professor] had been teaching at the college for many years already; Dad had just taken over as head of the department that year, so that’s why he wasn’t yet aware of the preexisting complaints against [Professor]. They would have been addressed as soon as he found out about them, my having issues with [Professor] just led Dad to find them a bit sooner.

Related:
Thanks To ADHD And The ADA, You’ve Been HAD

When I was in college, I worked for a year on a night clean-up shift from 10:00 pm to 6:00 am in a national beef packing plant. I booked the earliest classes for two semesters, always getting a 7:30 class that nobody wanted. I’d leave the plant and enter the building of my first class and find a room that was unlocked, go over to a far corner, and go to sleep at a desk.

For one semester, the unlocked room was always the same, even though it was not my first class. The room was for a Cost Of Accounting class that I had later in the morning. When students started coming into the Cost class, the commotion would wake me up and I would leave to go to the room of my first class, Auditing. (I was an accounting major.)

One morning, I woke up with the students all assembled at desks and the instructor in his wheelchair at the head of the room. Nothing was being said. I got up from the desk and sheepishly walked in front of the class to the door and exited the room. Embarrassed doesn’t describe the feeling I had as I walked out.

I found out later that the instructor had planned with the students of that class to quietly take their seats and let me sleep for almost fifteen minutes into the class period. He never did it to me again, thank goodness.

Many years ago, I had a fantastic hair stylist. She started doing my hair when I was sixteen, and she did my hair and my family’s hair for fifteen years. Sadly, she moved to another state due to her husband changing jobs. 

Two months had passed since she had left and since she had highlighted my hair — it was blonde, the same way I’d had it done for years — right before she moved. This is now where the story begins. 

My mom called me and told me that the local college’s cosmetology students performed services there for a small cost. She asked if I wanted to go with her and have a manicure and pedicure and have my hair styled. I agreed. At the time, I was seven months pregnant. 

The mani and pedi were great, and the student who did those really was nice. However, the student who was doing my hairstyle was not. Let’s call her [Student #1]. 

[Student #1] approached me and looked me up and down. The first thing she said was: 

Student #1: *With disdain* “You must be pregnant.”

Me: *Smiling* “yes”

Student #1: “Well, I sure don’t envy you, that’s for sure. I already got two kids.”

I thought that was a strange thing to say, but I let it go. 

She led me to the shampoo bowl and I sat down. She did not put a towel on me. She didn’t speak to me at all, even when I asked her if she could straighten my hair out. 

She told me to lift my head up, and as she was washing the shampoo out of my hair, she sprayed water down my back. “Maybe it was an accident,” I thought. My back was soaked, though. I didn’t think at first that she was doing anything deliberately. 

She led me to her chair, told me to sit, and walked away. She said nothing to me. I thought maybe she went to the bathroom. 

Several minutes passed, and she wasn’t back. I patiently waited and waited. My hair was almost dry at that point, and it takes a good while for it to air-dry. I stood up and looked around for her. I saw her having a lively conversation on the phone up front. She was smiling and laughing.

Another student walked by me.

Student #2: “Did she really just leave you here?”

Me: “Yes.”

[Student #2] saw [Student #1] on the phone and shook her head. 

Student #2: “I’m so sorry. I will dry your hair for you. She shouldn’t have left you like this. Your hair is starting to get frizzy. I can add some product, and maybe it will help. If she doesn’t come back soon, I can cut it or whatever you wanted it.”

[Student #2] started drying my hair, and then [Student #1] came back.

Student #2: “Since you just left her here, I decided to dry her hair. It is really frizzy.”

[Student #1] didn’t say anything. [Student #2] gave [Student #1] a disgusted look and walked away. 

[Student #1] started drying, and then maybe a minute later, she said:

Student #1: “You are done now.”

I looked in the mirror, and my hair was a big curly frizzy mess, and it was still wet in some spots. Initially, I told her I wanted my hair straightened out. She didn’t even attempt to straighten it out. This is how my hair looks when I blow dry it at home with no products or a straightener. At that point, I was just ready to leave.

Student #1: “By the way, your hair is an awful color. I don’t know who does your hair, but it’s really terrible. I mean god-awful. You should find someone else to do your hair who knows what they are doing. Hopefully, you won’t be pregnant again.”

This was my second and last pregnancy. I had enough of her. She was really just being over-the-top rude. 

Me: “By the way, your attitude is awful. I mean god-awful. You are rude. I haven’t said or done anything to you, and you have been nasty to me for no reason since the minute you laid eyes on me. You really should find another career because this one is a terrible choice for you. Hopefully, it will not be working with the public.”

She looked at me in disbelief. I walked away, found the instructor, and let her know of [Student #1]’s behavior. I don’t know what happened afterward. 

I’m normally try to avoid confrontation, but this lady was out of line. I really wish I would’ve said something sooner. I had been polite to her, but enough was enough. If she thought my hair color was terrible, she could have put it much nicer. I don’t understand why she was deliberately being so rude to me.  

I did find another stylist, and not only has she been my stylist for the past seventeen years, but now she is one of my best friends. I told her about [Student #1], and she was appalled that a cosmetology student would be so rude to someone she was performing services for. She said a stylist wouldn’t last very long in a salon treating clients with that behavior. She also briefly mentioned that a student shouldn’t tell someone that their hair color is awful, even if it really is. Maybe they could make a polite suggestion of another color but not anything like what [Student #1] did.

Maybe [Student #1] didn’t have any kids and was really envious of my pregnancy. But who really knows why she chose to be so rude to me?

When I was in college, my biology class took a day trip to a local watershed — in this case, a creek that drained into a larger river — to conduct a wildlife study. The procedure was simple: stand in the water and use special nets to capture and count the number and type of animals to determine how healthy or polluted the creek was. 

Naturally, I wore water shoes for this outing. Unfortunately, they were rather thin-soled, so when I stepped on a rusty nail that had somehow made its way into this creek in the middle of nowhere, it went right through my shoe and an inch into my foot. 

Because it happened during a school-sanctioned activity and it had been over a decade since my last Tdap (tetanus, diphtheria, and pertussis) vaccine, school policy required that I report to the campus clinic when we returned. [Professor] told me he’d speed things along by calling ahead to alert the clinic that I was coming and why. So, armed (footed?) with nothing but a holey shoe and the possibility of infection brewing in my extremities, off I traipsed to an unfamiliar two-story building at the edge of campus. 

The layout of this clinic was slightly unusual. Downstairs, there was a reception desk in front of a long hallway, which led to a small radiology unit on one side and a separate waiting room for anything to do with needles (vaccines, blood labs, etc.) on the other. The first-floor reception desk served as a gateway for those units but was NOT a check-in point; each unit had its own nurse to do check-ins and make sure you were in the right place. The main floor receptionist mostly provided directions and new patient paperwork that would be turned in elsewhere. The actual doctor’s offices, as I discovered later, were upstairs and behind a second set of receptionists, who DID do check-ins before appointments. (In theory.) 

But as this was my first time at this clinic, I didn’t know any of that.

Apparently, neither did the final-year nursing students who worked there. 

I approached the first-floor receptionist, [Receptionist #1], and explained that I was there to get my Tdap after stepping on a rusty nail during a school-sanctioned outing and that [Professor] should have called ahead.

Receptionist #1: “I haven’t received any such call, unfortunately. And all of our vaccine slots are booked for the day. But given your circumstances, I’ll squeeze you in for an appointment at [time].”

That time was right after my next class. I confirmed my appointment, handed over my student ID, watched her clack around on her computer, received my ID back, and then went to the next-door building for my mythology class. 

Two hours later, I returned to find that [Receptionist #1] had been replaced by [Receptionist #2].

Receptionist #2: *Smiling* “What are you here for?”

Me: “I have an appointment for a tetanus shot.”

She helpfully directed me to the waiting room down the hall. I trodded off, told [Nurse #1] behind the computer at the door my name, and sat down in the incredibly full waiting room (about thirty people) to wait.

And wait.

And wait. 

And wait. 

After almost an hour and seeing several new arrivals be called before me, I finally approached the nurse — again, a different one than the one who’d nodded me along when I entered the waiting room — and asked how long it would be before I would be called. She looked down at her computer and frowned. 

Nurse #2: “What’s your name again?”

Me: “[My Name].” *Presents my student ID* “I’m here for a tetanus shot because I stepped on a nail during [Professor]’s class today.”

She frowned and clacked around her computer for a minute. And then a minute more. She kept glancing between my ID and her computer screen with an increasingly confused expression on her face. 

Finally…

Nurse #2: “I’m sorry, but we don’t have a record of you in our system at all. Have you been here before? Which doctor ordered the vaccine?”

Me: *Now thoroughly confused myself* “I wasn’t seen by a doctor. [Professor] told me to come to the campus clinic. He said he’d call ahead to confirm that I just need a Tdap vaccine. I made an appointment with the front hall receptionist just a couple of hours ago.”

Nurse #2: *Sounding confused and apologetic* “I’m sorry, but all students are required to see a clinic doctor before receiving any treatment, even vaccines. [College] policy.”

In my state, pharmacies could give walk-ins Tdap boosters and other vaccines without authorization from a doctor. Hence, it hadn’t occurred to me that I’d need an appointment.

Me: “…ooookay. So, what should I do? [Professor] said it’s school policy that I get this shot today, and the receptionist made me an appointment, soooo…”

When [Nurse #2] replied, she sounded even more apologetic, if that were possible.

Nurse #2: “Again, I’m so sorry, but that reception desk doesn’t… actually… make appointments? That computer doesn’t even have the ability to access the schedule. I don’t know who checked you in, but you’re not in our system at all.” *Looking down at her screen again* “Unfortunately, we’re all booked today, but… Hmmm… You know what? Given your circumstances, I’m going to squeeze you into the clinic upstairs as an emergency appointment anyway.”

She scribbled a note on some official-looking paper and handed it to me.

Nurse #2: “Take this upstairs and check in with that reception desk. They should be able to help you. After your appointment, the doctor will send you back down here, and we’ll get you your shot.”

Confused and annoyed, I sighed, smiled, nodded, and found my way upstairs, waving to [Receptionist #2] as I passed. And that was that, right?

Oh-ho-ho, no. That would be too easy. 

When I reached the second-floor waiting area, it was empty. There was not a student, receptionist, nurse, or doctor in sight — just an empty, dark waiting room full of chairs, a line of what I presumed were reception desks, and a closed door. 

So, I went downstairs, explained the increasingly (and unnecessarily) long saga to yet a THIRD receptionist (where #1 and #2 went, I’ll never know), who accompanied me back upstairs, picked up a phone on the wall, and called back to the clinic. 

She explained my journey all the way from punctured foot to confused [Nurse #2].

Receptionist #3: “She has a paper here with [Nurse #2]’s signature on it saying she needs to be squeezed in today.” *Pauses* “Great, thanks.” *Hangs up*

Two seconds later, the door next to us swung open, and [Nurse #3] marched out. She and the receptionist greeted each other, I reiterated why I was there, and [Nurse #3] ushered me into the clinic where I was promptly dumped into the tiniest room I’ve ever seen. She asked what medications I was on and if I had any history of allergies, informed me that “[Doctor] will be in shortly,” and left, leaving the door wide open. 

And thus, I waited. I heard the sounds of nurses chatting on break, completing other patients’ intakes — apparently, the upstairs waiting room reopened shortly after my arrival — and generally doing nurse-y things. 

Another half-hour or so later, a harried-looking man in a white coat walked by the room, saw me, and did a double-take. 

White-Coat Man: “Are you waiting for a nurse?”

Me: “Honestly, I don’t even know.”

I explained the saga yet again.

Me: “A nurse took my history and left. I’m waiting for [Doctor].”

White-Coat Man: *Scrunching up his face* “I’m [Doctor].” *Checks the clipboard in his hands* “You’re not on the schedule at all. You say you’re here for a tetanus appointment?”

Me: *Nods* “The downstairs lab said I had to see you first, so here I am.”

Doctor: “…excuse me. I’ll be right with you.”

He scuttled off, and I settled back in my chair for another wait. Then, I heard a MASSIVE uproar in the front room. Thin walls or strong lungs — it’s anyone’s guess. 

Doctor: *Yelling* “WHAT THE H*** IS GOING ON OUT HERE?! THERE’S A PATIENT HERE WHO’S BEEN MYSTERIOUSLY ‘SCHEDULED’ FOR A PROCEDURE TWICE AND SOMEHOW STILL ISN’T ON A SINGLE SCHEDULE! AND WHAT THE H*** IS [RECEPTIONIST #1] DOING ‘SCHEDULING’ PATIENTS FOR LABS WITHOUT AUTHORIZATION IN THE FIRST PLACE? THAT’S THE THIRD TIME THIS WEEK! NOW BOTH [CLINIC] AND [LAB] WILL BE AN HOUR BEHIND FROM ALL THE F****** INCIDENT REPORTS I HAVE TO DO! HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO SAY IT? NURSING. STUDENTS. ARE. NOT. NURSES! [NURSING SCHOOL BIGWIG IN CHARGE OF CAMPUS CLINIC] WILL HAVE OUR HEADS FOR THIS S***!”

The yelling continued for another moment or two along those lines, and then there was blessed silence.

[Doctor] returned, gave a curt apology, and ordered me to remove my shoe so he could see the wound. Just wanting this saga to be over with — and not wanting to piss off the bulging vein in his forehead any further — I obeyed. He looked at my foot, seeming very unimpressed with the tiny hole — again, I was there for a tetanus shot, not the foot wound — scribbled something on his notepad, handed it to me, said a nurse would be in soon, and left. 

Seconds later, a very cowed [Nurse #4] appeared, gave me a bandage for my foot, handed me a paper authorization for my shot, and ushered me back downstairs. This time, I was seen immediately, given the hastiest vaccine I’ve ever received in my life by [Nurse #5], and all but pushed out the door. 

The kicker? When I tried to access my online transcript two months later, I received a notification that I had to pay an unpaid clinic bill — $90 and change — before the school could release it. That’s right: after all that drama and yelling, no one had written down anywhere that my visit should have been covered by the school as an in-class incident. 

Rather than try to argue my case, I paid the bill, got my transcript, and f***ed the h*** outta dodge. 

And that’s the story of how it took one doctor, three receptionists, and five nurses for me to get a single $90 tetanus shot.

When I was in law school I went to a bar with a bunch of law school students and decided I wanted a cigarette. I went outside and a whole bunch of girls are smoking. I don’t like to bum cigarettes, but I had a free small fry coupon from McDonald’s.

Me: “Hi, I have this coupon for a free small fry. You can see it’s still valid. I’ll swap this for a cigarette.”

Girl: “Just one cigarette?”

Me: “Yes.”

Girl: “Okay.”

I hand it to her, but then she won’t give me a cigarette.

Girl: “You shouldn’t be so trusting.”

And with that, she flounces off with her friends.

Flash forward a few months, and I’m the first call (GA) for the IT for a division in our university, which includes administration. I go up to replace a computer and see the same girl; she is waiting in line for a job interview. I go up to the person who is conducting the interviews (I am their IT person too) and tell them the story.

She didn’t get the job.