I have had recurrent urinary infections for a while, so after the most recent one is treated, my doctor sends me for an ultrasound to make sure nothing is left in my bladder to explain it.

To do this, you have to have a full bladder, so they tell you to drink two big glasses of water about thirty minutes before the appointment. I do this and arrive at the clinic ten minutes before to start waiting. By this point, I am starting to feel the need to go.

The appointment ends up being thirty minutes late, and at this point, I am almost crying in pain from my bladder being so full. I finally get in, and they scan before and after I have peed.

The doctor then gives me the news that I might have urinary retention and this could be serious.

However, I am not so sure, as it is literally just above the most minor category.

Fast forward to my meeting with my usual doctor. He reads the report and gets to that point in it. He snorts.

Doctor: “Most people’s bladder has a capacity of about 500ml; you had just over 600ml. I’d be surprised if you didn’t have some retention. The guy doing the scan is an idiot.”

At least I now know why I was in so much pain.

I have horribly irregular periods and a family history of uterine fibroids. While I tried talking to my parents about these issues in high school, I was ignored, even though I often had to be picked up from school due to the sheer pain of my cramps. When I talked to my general practitioner, she didn’t think there was anything to worry about. I didn’t manage to get a gynecologist appointment until I was in college after going nearly four months without a period.

Before my appointment, I prepared for a fight. I dressed nicely. I compiled over three years’ worth of data from my period tracking app to prove that my cycles were far longer than normal and were edging into “please see a doctor” territory. I printed out a color-coded chart and a line graph to prove that my cycles were getting longer and longer. Basically, I was expecting to have to fight to be taken seriously since I was young, looked even younger, and was otherwise quite healthy.

When I got to the appointment and met the gynecologist, we ran through the basic first-time patient questions. I pulled out my line graph and the table chart, explained how I’d formatted them, and silently prayed that she would take me seriously. She looked quite shocked, so I was prepared for the worst.

Doctor: “Do you mind if I take these to add to your records?”

Me: “No problem. They’re just printouts.”

Doctor: “Thank you so much! I wish all our patients did this.”

She paused my appointment to run my charts down to records, and they transferred all of the information they could use from my charts to my patient file. The OB heard me out on all my concerns, and I ended up getting a low dose of birth control and a “just in case” test for another condition for which I was at a higher genetic risk. My relief was immeasurable.

I work as a doctor in a psychiatric hospital. During the night shifts, there’s only one doctor for all patients coming into our clinic. (There’s also a senior physician on call for advice or to come in if necessary.)

The doctor responsible for patients coming in at night also takes all inbound calls from people wanting to come in or asking for advice on mental health. During the nights, we only take emergencies with immediate danger since we’re so short-staffed. Everyone else has to call back during the day to arrange an appointment with a lady coordinating the waitlist for non-emergency treatment.

There’s a very simple rule about coming into our hospital: unless it’s a life-or-death situation, you need to bring a referral. It can be from any doctor — we’re really not picky — but no referral means no treatment.

There’s one person I’ll call [Phantom] who everyone in our clinic knows but nobody has ever seen. He calls every night, and the conversation usually goes like this.

Phantom: *In a very whiny voice* “You gotta help me. I feel so bad.”

Doctor: “Who is this?”

Phantom: *Hesitantly* “This is… [Phantom]. Please help me.”

Doctor: “Hello, [Phantom], why are you feeling bad?”

Phantom: “I just feel bad. I’m so stressed.”

Doctor: “Okay, are you experiencing an emergency? Are you thinking about ending your life?”

Phantom: “No! I’d never do that! I just feel bad. You need to help me! I’m stressed!”

Doctor: “In that case, please contact [Coordination Lady] in the morning. She’s available from 8:00 am to 4:00 pm. You’ll need a referral to our clinic.”

Phantom: “I’M NOT GONNA GET A REFERRAL! I DON’T WANNA! YOU HAVE TO HELP ME!”

Doctor: “No referral, no treatment. We’ve been over this before, Mr. [Phantom].”

Phantom: “BUT I DON’T WANNA GET A REFERRAL!”

Doctor: “In that case, I currently can’t help you. Good night.” *Hangs up*

[Phantom] has been calling every single night for YEARS. By now, everyone except the coordination lady in our clinic recognises his voice, and he ours. She’s the only one he has never called, not even once. He knows he needs a referral, and he does have a primary care physician he regularly goes to who could easily give him one.

Once, a night shift doctor actually asked him to come in just to see what would happen. He never showed up.

I really wonder what his deal is.

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.

I’m in my early thirties. I’m having a lot of pain in my back with no known cause, so my doctor orders X-rays. The tech is positioning me on the table, which is causing very painful spasms.

Tech: “You’re here for a back X-ray?”

Me: “Yep.”

Tech: “Workout injury?”

Me: “No.”

Tech: “Fall recently?”

Me: “No.”

Tech: “Move the wrong way?”

Me: “No.”

Tech: “Pregnant?”

Me: “No.”

Tech: “Then why do you need an X-ray?”

Me: “To see why my back hurts!”

Tech: “No known reason?”

Me: “Correct. Can you please just take the X-rays? This position hurts!”

The tech makes a face but does what I ask.

A couple of minutes later…

Tech: “All done.”

I start to get up. The tech runs over and stands behind me.

Tech: “Sweetie, take your time getting up. Do you need help?”

Me: “…you saw something, didn’t you?”

Tech: “Oh, uh… I’m not allowed to discuss that. But seriously, let me help you up.”

Me: “Uh-huh. You definitely saw something.”

I was diagnosed with inflammatory arthritis in my back not long after.