My father once scheduled an appointment at his doctor’s office. He’s a lawyer (he had his own firm at the time), and he scheduled the appointment on an extended lunch break. The doctor’s appointment was at 1:00 pm, and he kept his schedule clear until 2:30 pm.

He called a few days in advance to confirm the time. He also called that day, shortly before lunch, to confirm the time. He showed up as directed, about fifteen minutes before, introduced himself, and waited.

And waited.

Around 1:30, he was called up and admitted to the office… where he waited.

And waited.

Finally, at about 2:00 pm — over an hour after he arrived — a nurse came in.

Nurse: “The doctor will see you shortly.”

Dad patiently (no pun intended) informed them that he had work to get back to and left.

The office tried to bill him for breaking the appointment. He responded by informing them of his (big city law firm) hourly rate and telling them that if they intended to bill him for breaking the appointment, then he intended to bill them for his time if they were that late again — noting that he’d confirmed they weren’t behind schedule before coming over.

They didn’t bill him for breaking the appointment. They also never held him up like that again.

This happened about five years ago, so I might get some of the terminology wrong. I had just started working in a new nursery (daycare), and on the Friday of my first week on the job, we were notified that there had been three reported cases of Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease in the baby room where I’d been working all week. We were assured that adults couldn’t get HFMD, so I toddled off to a club night that evening with my boyfriend and my best friend.

Before we arrived, I started feeling nauseated, but I assumed it was because of my social anxiety — one of my main symptoms is nausea — so I thought nothing of it. Within an hour of arriving at the club, I was feeling worse, and I noticed red spots had appeared on my hands and knees and around my mouth. I texted my boyfriend that I was feeling too ill to stay, so he and my best friend came to collect me from the dark corner I’d retreated to and took me home.

On the ride home, I felt worse and worse, and coming in from the balcony of our flat where I’d gone for a cigarette to help calm the nausea, I found I’d developed vertigo so bad I couldn’t stand up. I crawled on my hands and knees to the bedroom, and my boyfriend kept me supplied with water and checked my temperature while my best friend looked up the symptoms of HFMD. Surprise! I had every symptom going and a few more on top.

After a sleepless night with my temperature bouncing from 37°C to 39.8°C (98.6°F to 103.6°F), my boyfriend drove me to Urgent Care around 8:00 am, where I was looked over by a doctor who was far too cheerful and condescending for the time of day.

Me: “I’m fairly certain I have HFMD—”

The doctor chuckled as though I’d said I’d been bitten by a vampire.

Doctor: “Oh, yeah? How do you figure that, then?”

Me: “I have spots on my hands, feet, mouth, knees, and bum, a high temperature, nausea, and vertigo, and I just spent all week working in the baby room of a nursery where we had an HFMD outbreak.”

Doctor: “Don’t be silly; adults don’t get HFMD. Your tonsils are swollen. You’ve got tonsillitis.”

Me: “I’ve had tonsillitis before and didn’t have most of these symptoms. Are you sure?”

Doctor: “Absolutely. You can’t have HFMD and tonsillitis, anyway. I’m giving you an antibiotic prescription, but if you don’t believe me, you can always get a second option.”

I didn’t believe him, so I went to a different Urgent Care unit and went through the entire process again with a much more sympathetic nurse.

Nurse: “He said you can’t have both at the same time? That’s ridiculous. You’ve got all the symptoms of both, and your tonsils are so swollen that I’m surprised we don’t need to get you a spit bowl. I’m giving you another prescription for [something I can’t remember]. Take both, and if your temperature goes above 39°C again, come back here and tell them [Nurse] told you to.”

Thankfully, the prescriptions worked, and after a miserable few days, my temperature stabilised, I was able to walk instead of crawl, and I could eat solid food again after nothing but soup. I’m eternally grateful to that nurse for actually listening to me and not dismissing me like the doctor did the first time round. But seriously, who says you can’t have two illnesses at the same time?

CONTENT WARNING: Loss of Pregnancy

I am roughly four months pregnant when my wife and I find out I have what’s called a Partial Molar pregnancy. There are two types of these pregnancies: Molar and Partial Molar. Molar pregnancies are caused by a dead egg being inseminated by sperm, which results in abnormal cells being made and does not result in an actual baby. Partial Molar pregnancies are the result of two sperm fertilizing an egg at the exact same time. In these cases, a baby is created, but the baby has sixty-nine chromosomes instead of forty-six. 

My wife and I are informed about our baby’s genetic condition and told that no baby can make it to term in this condition. On top of that, I am rushed to the hospital for an emergency D&C due to extremely severe preeclampsia. My wife and I are absolutely devastated at the loss of our child, and on top of that, very concerned about my health; I spend eight days in the hospital and have to be monitored for the next six months as these types of pregnancies can lead to cancer.

A couple of months later, I go to my doctor for a follow-up. He is running late and they ask if I would mind seeing a different doctor. No problem, I think. In the room with me are a nurse and the doctor. 

Doctor: “I see here you had a partial molar pregnancy and you’re here for a follow-up?”

The nurse mixes up molar and partial molar pregnancies.

Nurse: “Oh, that’s one of those cheating pregnancies — making you think you have a baby, when you don’t.”

I am in absolute shock that she would say this, as I am still grieving. Additionally, I imagine women who have molar pregnancies would still be devastated to find out they aren’t actually pregnant.

Me: “Um, no. There was a baby.”

Nurse: “No, it makes you think there’s a baby, but there isn’t one. It’s a cheating pregnancy.” 

The doctor starts waving her hands for the nurse to stop.

Doctor: “No, no, she had a partial molar pregnancy. There was a baby.”

After that, we go along with the appointment and the doctor asks some routine questions, including whether I’m physically intimate with men, women, or both.

Me: “Women.”

Doctor: “What? But you were just pregnant.”

Me: “Yes, because we used a doctor to help us get pregnant, at a fertility clinic. There should be a referral in my file.”

Between the insensitivity of the nurse and lack of understanding of basic medical services like fertility clinics, I’ll definitely wait next time my regular doctor is running behind.

When I was pregnant, I signed on as a patient with a midwives’ office. They scheduled appointments with a different midwife every visit or two. The idea was to have the patient see all of the midwives so that whoever was on call at delivery time would be at least a somewhat familiar face.

Somewhere early in my third trimester, I arrived for an appointment with a midwife I hadn’t seen yet. I could tell upon greeting her that she had kind of a b****y attitude. She had a medical student working with her that day. (The student seemed friendly.)

[Student] checked my belly.

Student: “I think your baby is breech!”

At this point, there would still be time to try to get the baby turned around.

The midwife barely touched my belly.

Midwife: “No, it’s fine. The baby is head-down.”

As a naive young mama who hates confrontation, I didn’t question the midwife’s expertise. I’m sure you can see where this is going. On the day I went into labor, I arrived at the hospital to find that the same midwife was on call. (Great. *eye roll*)

The midwife checked my cervix.

Midwife: “You’re 6 cm dilated. But I think I’m feeling fingers. I need to take an ultrasound and make sure baby’s hand isn’t in the way.”

To the surprise of no one reading by this point, the ultrasound revealed that the “fingers” were actually toes: the baby was very much feet-first. So, here I was, getting close to delivery, with increasingly strong contractions, and the midwife said:

Midwife: “We don’t do vaginal breech births here. You’re going to have to have a C-section.”

I’m pretty sure my heart skipped a few beats. I was terrified but felt that there was not enough time to really consider options.

On the plus side, the surgeon was awesome, the baby was healthy, and I made a full recovery. But I will always regret not getting a second opinion on the baby’s position after that visit with the med student.

I grew up in the Midwest of the USA and moved down to a southern state in 2018. It was 2019, and I hadn’t found a dentist yet. I didn’t think it was a big deal. I then chipped two of my front teeth. I have small teeth due to a genetic disorder.

The office was nice, and I loved how the paperwork asked if you had dentist anxiety. The dentist himself was weird. This dentist would not stop smiling. It was creepy.

Dentist: “You have no enamel in your teeth! You grind your teeth while sleeping, and your teeth are small because of it! You need twelve crowns and Invisalign right now. I cannot fill your chipped teeth because of everything.”

I questioned this right away. I had just seen my dentist back home less than a year before this, and he never said I had no enamel in my teeth. I felt like the dentist was trying to buy his next car.

I left the office and never came back!

I found a different dentist who told me that I might need ten crowns in the far future and that I still had enamel in my teeth, and he filled the two chipped teeth! He also took the time to research my genetic disorder. He did recommend Invisalign, and I did end up getting that.

I still see this dentist to this day and recommend him to all of my friends!