The father of one of my coworkers is a doctor and is very good at what he does. I bring up to my coworker that I had a very severe health issue when I was a kid, some twenty-five years ago. My coworker tells me that his dad is a specialist in that particular health issue and I should talk to him. I agree, and he says he’ll talk to his dad.

Because it’s been so long, obviously, I need to request the information from records. I do have a CD with the information from a previous lookup, but it’s lost. I still have a copy of the forms. It would just be easier to send the information directly to his dad, anyway, so I get the forms filled out.

I realize I don’t know the address to send the information to. My coworker is at home, so I send him a text.

Me: “Hey, I need the address to send my information to your dad. I have the CD somewhere but can’t find it, and I figured it would be easier to send the information directly to him.”

Coworker: “Okay, yeah. I’ll talk to him tonight, and I’ll see if he can’t stop by the store this weekend to chat with you in person.”

Me: “Okay, thanks. That’d be great!”

A day goes by. My coworker texts back.

Coworker: “Hey, so, I talked with my dad, and he says that you can get another copy of the CD by contacting the hospital and requesting a new one. He can’t personally request to see yours because you aren’t actually his patient.”

I pause for a moment before responding.

Me: “Yes, I know. I’m filling out the forms, and they’re done, but I just need the address to know where to send the information. I just need the address.”

Coworker: “Oh, okay. Yeah, I’ll talk to him again.”

This isn’t rocket surgery, guys! Hopefully, his dad will show up this weekend, and maybe I can find the CD!

I work in hardware/software support for a company that makes medical equipment and distributes it to hospitals. I get a support ticket on Monday from someone who works in the IT department for a network of regional hospitals. A doctor has shipped him one of our devices (from an hour away), requesting he reach out to us on her behalf to fix it. The ONLY word she included in her email to him was “broken”. That’s it. Literally nothing else.

I request that the IT guy — the only person I’ve actually spoken to at this point — contact the doctor to get some more information.

IT Guy: “Trust me, we will both regret doing that. This doctor is an absolute nightmare to work with.”

Me: “We have no choice. I can’t send a device in for repair with absolutely no information.”

So, he calls her, puts her on speaker, and explains that I have some questions about the device. The doctor immediately starts yelling. I am listening to her secondhand — through the speaker of [IT Guy]’s cell phone, into his work phone’s microphone, and then out through my headset earpiece. Needless to say, her yelling is almost unintelligible. After she stops yelling and I can get a word in:

Me: “Can you tell me what the specific problem is?”

She goes on another tirade, except I hear her say the device isn’t connecting to the software properly. I sigh to myself because I know more problems are going to arise from here.

Me: “Due to it being a connectivity issue, there are several troubleshooting steps we need to take before determining that repair service is needed.”

Doctor: *Swears* “I don’t have time for this.”

And she hangs up. It’s silent for a few seconds.

IT Guy: “A real treat, isn’t she? What can we do from here?”

Me: “Is it at all possible for you to get access to the specific terminal she is using so we can troubleshoot?”

IT Guy: “No, I’m working at the central office for the entire [Hospital] network, an hour away from where [Doctor] is calling from.”

Me: “Then the only option is to send it back to her and tell her to call our support line directly so we can investigate the problem with her.”

IT Guy: “Okay, but that will only make things worse.”

A few days pass, and I’m hoping and praying that I’m not the unfortunate soul to get the call from [Doctor] when she finally calls in. I’m begging the gods to inspire her to submit her ticket via email so I can talk to her that way. But no, bright and early Thursday morning, my very first ticket of the day, I get the phone call from her.

Me: “This is [My Name] from [Medical Company]. How can I help you?”

After a few seconds of silence, she finally speaks in the most b****y, condescending tone you can imagine.

Doctor: “You told me to call you, so I assume you know what this is about.”

Me: “Are you calling regarding an existing ticket?”

I don’t know who I am talking to at this point; we get hundreds of tickets a day.

She then rattles off the ticket number as fast as she possibly can. I have to ask her to repeat it slower. She sighs and repeats the ticket number, except this time, as slow as she can, obviously mocking me. I just ignore that. I pull up the ticket and realize who I’m talking to, and my heart sinks

Me: “Oh, I see it. You were having connectivity issues? If you could just—”

She cuts me off.

Doctor: “How long is this going to take? Calling you for help is always a f****** nightmare.”

Me: “Well, if you’ll let me diagnose the problem, I can get you on your way.”

I remote into her computer to check a few things. The device isn’t showing up in the device manager; it connects via USB.

Me: “Is the device currently plugged in?”

Doctor: “Yes!”

Me: “Can you try a different USB port?”

Doctor: “Do you mean one of the ports on the computer?”

I instantly know what the problem is.

Me: “Are you connecting to a USB hub? If you are, make sure the USB hub is connected to the computer.”

Sure enough, it wasn’t. She has been blowing a gasket over her device not even being plugged in. She plugs the hub in and the device is recognized instantly. Of course, she doesn’t apologize for her behavior or anything. She just said:

Doctor: “It’s working now.”

And with that, she hung up, and I closed the ticket.

And to put the icing on the cake, she gave me a zero-out-of-five satisfaction rating. What a jerk.

The software we use in our clinic — as I imagine most EMRs [electronic medical records] do — automates the writing of prescriptions (called a sig). You fill out a few text fields (quantity and formation, route, frequency) and a few number fields (number of days, number dispensed), and you have a prescription. You can also add relevant information (diagnosis code, when to take the med, etc.) to the text fields.

The software will save a medication’s sig in a patient’s chart so it’s easy to just load and send the next time.

The absolute best sig I have seen to date was for a medication called tamsulosin, and I have no clue how long the doctor had been sending it like this.

Prescription: “Take one tablet to make it easier to urinate by mouth once per day, 30 days, 30 tablets.”

I was diagnosed with epilepsy at thirteen and have been treated for complex-partial seizures ever since. I’m now twenty, have moved away to attend university, and have gone to see a new neurologist at the local hospital.

Me: “I requested that my medical records be sent here. I have complex-partial seizures, mainly, and I’ve been taking [medication] for three years—”

Doctor: “What happened to your arm?”

Me: “I hurt it during a seizure last week. I still have them if I get very stressed and don’t sleep enough, but the medication—”

Doctor: *Sarcastically* “You ‘hurt it during a seizure’?”

Me: “Well… yes. I scraped it when my arm was spasming. It happens sometimes.”

Doctor: “Sure, it does. I’m going to refer you to the psychiatric clinic. There are better ways to look for attention, honey.”

Me: “I was diagnosed by EEG. My last neurologist already ruled out PNES—”

Doctor: “Look, honey, you can either do as I say or I’ll have to give you a Munchausen’s diagnosis and nobody will be able to treat you. Now, it’s time for you to go.”

I leave, immensely frustrated, and end up making a plan to travel back home to see my old neurologist every six months. Things go fine at first until I have a seizure at work one day and a coworker calls an ambulance. I can’t respond to their questions, so they take me to the hospital where [Doctor] works.

After consulting his file, they give me an anxiety medication which I am mildly allergic to — he apparently believes I am faking the allergy, as well — and leave me alone in a darkened room for several hours.

Confused, I eventually wander out of the hospital and am found by my roommate, who has been searching for me. She calls my family to tell them I am safe.

Over an hour later, my mother gets this call.

Caller: “Hi, this is [Caller] at [Hospital]. Your daughter was here earlier having a panic attack. We’re not sure where she is now. Would you like us to start looking for her?”

Mother: “What the f*** is wrong with you people?!”

I have a relatively common issue with my blood pressure. There are a lot of routine things that make a person’s blood pressure spike, pain being a common one. The problem for me is that my blood pressure is especially reactive and doesn’t come back to equilibrium easily; it doesn’t take much to make it spike, and then when it tries to regulate itself, it overcompensates and nosedives, instead. This isn’t dangerous, for the most part, just irritating, because it means that I faint extremely easily from relatively little stimulus — for example, getting blood drawn. I’m used to skepticism about this, but this was by far the worst example of condescension I’ve come across in a while.

Also worth mentioning is that, because I faint so frequently, it holds no dread for me. It’s not fun, but it happens. I lay there for a bit, I get up, and I get on with my day. So, even knowing that I am facing a trigger doesn’t give me any anxiety. This is just what we’re doing today.

A visit to my general doctor ends with him wanting to check my thyroid levels (because I’m blessed with both this issue and an autoimmune disease that can only be monitored through a blood draw), so a somewhat impromptu visit to the lab ensues. When I get called back, I immediately inform the phlebotomist. It’s just polite.

Me: “Oh, just so you’re aware, I have a fainting reaction, so if I could lie down for this—”

She just rolls her eyes and points me to a different room than the original one she was leading me to, presumably because there wasn’t a table in the first one. It’s not a promising start, but oh, well. I stretch out on the table and she comes back with her supplies.

Phlebotomist: “Name?”

Me: “[My Name].”

Phlebotomist: “Date of birth?”

Me: “[Date], 1989.”

Phlebotomist: “Well, about time to grow out of this, then, isn’t it?”

I just stare at her for a second. I’ve never had someone be quite this aggressive about it.

Me: “I… can’t. It’s not a psych issue; it’s physiological. I literally can’t help it.”

She gives another eye roll and sits down next to me.

Me: “Seriously, if I faint, I will probably be less bothered about it than you will.”

Phlebotomist: “Sure. Did you drink any water today? Your veins are being difficult.”

Me: “No. It’s 9:00 am and I didn’t think I was doing bloodwork today.”

Phlebotomist: “Ugh. Well, you should have. It would make this easier for both of us.”

At this point, I’m almost hoping I will faint. My eyes don’t close and it freaks people out something awful. Ironically, when she finally gets to the stick, she does so well that I don’t feel it, which means no blood pressure reaction. As soon as she pulls the needle out and has a bandage on me, I pop up from the table.

Phlebotomist: “Oh… you’re okay?”

Me: “Yeah. It’s the pinch that does it. But you did a good job and I didn’t feel anything, so I’ll be fine.”

Phlebotomist: *Looking slightly baffled* “Oh…”

Me: “Yeah, whatever. Thanks.”

I get that it’s probably frustrating to deal with people who have phobias or are just extremely pain-averse — not that you shouldn’t treat those people with compassion, too, as being snippy with them is only going to make the anxiety worse — but I don’t think I could possibly have looked and sounded more nonchalant for the entire exchange. She still acted like I was throwing a toddler tantrum. I’m sorry my blood pressure is a drama queen, but skip the attitude, maybe?