My five-year-old has just had a dentist appointment and is playing with the prize she picked out. 

Daughter: “Mama, do you get any surprises when you go to the dentist?”

Me: “The bill. Or if I have a cavity.”

Daughter: “Those aren’t prizes!”

Me: “No. But they sure are surprises.”

Daughter: “That doesn’t sound like a fun surprise.”

Me: “It’s not.”

I work as a phlebotomist. One day, I get a little hypoglycemic while working, and I grab a Capri-Sun to get some glucose in me.

My hands shaking a little bit, I keep stabbing the pouch with the straw, and the straw keeps not penetrating. Finally, with a grunt, I manage to work it through. I bring the beverage to my mouth only to find a patient staring at me with wide eyes.

Patient: “Uh… Is there someone else — anyone else — who can draw my blood, please?”

Me: “Why?”

Patient: “No offense, but after watching you stab that juice pack seventeen times with the straw, I can’t help but imagine you doing that to my arm.”

Me: “Oh. Okay.”

I fetched someone else to do his arm. It was a very embarrassing event, and I felt bad about it for weeks after. I’ve never since attempted to drink a juice pack while at work.

While out and about, I faceplant on some stairs and cut my face badly. After the usual attempts to stop the bleeding, I realize that this is worse than I thought, so my husband and I head to the nearest urgent care clinic for some stitches.

When I see the doctor, he starts to clean and prep the cut.

Doctor: “I’m going to do as few stitches as I can — my thinnest sutures. It’ll barely scar; you won’t even be able to tell!”

Me: “Oh, okay. Great.”

The entire time he works, he reiterates that “it won’t scar” over and over. Around the fifth time, I’m starting to get a little annoyed. I’m sure he sees a lot of people, specifically women, who are anxious about scarring, but I never once expressed any kind of concern about it. I don’t care if I walk out of there looking like the Joker as long as he stops the bleeding and prevents infection.

But I want to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he’s a talker who gets stuck in a loop and doesn’t like to work in silence.

Doctor: “—so, not to worry, you’ll barely notice any scar.”

Me: “Well, if I do have a scar, then it’ll be a badge of honor, right?”

Doctor: *Startled* “But… that’s what we tell the boys!”

I gave up. In his defense, there really was very little scarring.

I was prescribed Tramadol for my sciatic pain a few years ago; the pain was so bad that I literally couldn’t get up, sit, or walk without it. I’d actually had to take a couple of weeks off work as my doctor and I were experimenting with less-potent drugs, but this was the only one that worked. On Tramadol, I was perfectly functional; off of it, I was bedridden.

I had to refill the prescription in another EU member state once, and they gave me trouble at the pharmacy, questioning the doctor’s choice of the drug. I had to explain to them that maybe they should just do their jobs and fill in the prescription since they weren’t my doctor.

Then, one day, I took a trip to Egypt. (The condition lasted almost a year before it cleared, and I couldn’t put my life on hold, so I tried to live a normal life in the meantime.) To my horror, I discovered that I had forgotten to pack enough pills, and I would be out of them soon. I also didn’t have a valid prescription with me. I thought I’d try my luck at the hotel pharmacy; maybe Egypt had different rules that could work in my favor this time?

I explained my situation to the pharmacist, and she immediately handed over a box of Tramadol and told me the price.

Me: *Happy but confused* “Wait. Isn’t this a prescription-only drug over here?”

Pharmacist: “Yes, it is!”

Me: “But I don’t have a prescription with me; that’s part of my problem!”

Pharmacist: “Yes, you do!”

Me: “I don’t understand.”

Pharmacist: “We just wrote you one!”

Me: “But don’t you need a doctor for that?!”

Pharmacist: “See that gentleman in the lab coat sitting over there? He’s our doctor. He just wrote you a prescription.”

The hotel pharmacy actually employed a doctor who’d write prescriptions for hotel guests! There’s probably a ton of stuff wrong with this setup, but it certainly saved my butt this time, so the last thing on my mind was to complain.

Patient: “I want a copy of my father’s insurance card. It expired.”

Me: “I’m afraid we don’t have a copy of that.”

Patient: *Upset.* “How can you not have it?!” 

Me: “You don’t have it; how do you expect us to?!”